Lapsus Memoriae
by ryagelle
Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Autobot City, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe discover that hope and life may be rekindled... but at what cost? Tie-in fic with TtH, CC, and UB. G1, slash, rating subject to change. I still don't own Transformers.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, okay, so I probably shouldn't be starting another fic with Unexpectedly Blue only about halfway done—but I have discovered that plotbunnies pack a nasty bite. That, and the casual way that so many of my favorites were killed in TFTM really irks me. Like, bad. Thus, I wrote this, because I couldn't stand to leave it that way.

And I promise that the next chapter of Unexpectedly Blue will be forthcoming shortly. We swears, precious.

Beta-read by VAWitch—thanks so much!

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It had been, mercifully, quick.

Sideswipe tried not to let himself think anything else as he stared at the cold, dead face of his bondmate, tried not to feel the gaping empty hole in his spark where the medic had once been. He wished he could shutter the staring optics; the dull shine of the glass was unnerving without the usual blue glow.

Sunstreaker had refused to come. He was not coping with the sudden silence in the bond, insisted he could still feel the echo of their partner's presence. He had barricaded himself up in their room, and Sideswipe knew that there would be no getting him out until he was ready short of dragging him.

Unsurprisingly, no one was brave enough to try.

Steeling himself, he turned back to his sorrowful task. "Oh, Ratch," he murmured brokenly, hands fluttering over the shattered windshield, not quite touching, as though to touch meant to make it real. "You were not supposed to die first," he whispered, finally gathering up the courage to brush black fingers along the grey chevron, so very gently. "Fraggit, we were the ones that everyone expected to get killed, not you—" His vocalizer shorted out, and he fell silent for a moment.

Trying vainly to gather his composure, he looked around the room, despite the fact that everywhere his optics fell lay the honored dead.

There were so many…

They may not all have been his friends, but they didn't have to be his friends to be his family—and that was what they had become, really, this motley crew of disparate mechanoids who had crashed on this backwater planet so very long ago. They had, one and all, been chosen for their skills, for the fact that there were none better at what they did in the entirety of the Autobot faction, rather than because their personalities were compatible with one another's.

There had been some interesting—and colorful—arguments.

Sideswipe's gaze touched on each of the other fallen, carefully avoiding looking at the one he had come for.

Brawn. Huffer. Windcharger. Wheeljack… _Oh, Primus, Wheeljack…!_

Ironhide—_you were supposed to be indestructible_…

Prowl.

Sideswipe thought that he could happily have sat down right then and there and listened to one of Prowl's lectures on responsibility and the importance of following orders. He looked at the tactician hopefully for a moment, but he only lay there, cold and grey.

Disheartened despite the foolishness of his last thought, he walked over to stand beside Prime, laid out in state on a bier in the center of the room.

There was something so fundamentally _wrong_ about seeing his commanding officer supine on that frigid metal slab, something that symbolized just how fucked up his world had become. Optimus Prime had been a constant—one of the few in his life.

And now he was dead.

Bowing his head, Sideswipe shuffled back over to stand next to Ratchet again. This time he splayed his hand across the medic's chestplate, right over the empty spark-chamber. "I wish that Sunstreaker would pull his head out of his aft long enough to come," he told the CMO softly. "I understand why he doesn't though. I kinda wish I hadn't come either. This hurts more than I thought it would—and I expected it to hurt like the Pit." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "_Primus_. I miss you. I keep expecting to walk into the medbay and see you there, but it's only ever that slagging jumped-up Protectobot…" He trailed off, momentarily unable to continue.

Finally, he shook himself. "Sorry. I know the kid meant a lot to you, and I shouldn't insult him, but he's just… not the Chief Medical Officer to me." His other hand drifted, almost of its own accord, up to stroke the cold white cheek.

"Sunny… Sunny swears that he can still feel you. I think he's delusional, though I guess it could be sensor ghosts. I could ask First Aid, but I don't really want to right now." The red warrior's face twisted in anguish. "Either way, whether it's ghosts or delusions, he's gone off the deep end. He won't come out of our quarters, he won't take in energy, he refuses to recharge—and Rodimus is starting to get pissed at him for all the times he's insulted his efforts at drawing him out. I don't blame Sunny, though—who'd have ever thought that that little pipsqueak would make Prime?" He huffed a short sigh, vents hissing.

"Listen to me, pouring my spark out to a shell," he muttered. "Sometimes I think that I've gone just as crazy as my brother. And you know what else is _really_ funny? Seriously, Ratch, you would laugh yourself sick at this—but, if I concentrate… I can still feel you, too. And that, I think, is why I keep expecting to walk around the corner and see you there, even though I _know_ that you're right here, waiting for whatever damned ceremony they're planning and not giving a fig about any of it."

A sudden commotion out in the corridor interrupted his soliloquy, and he looked up sharply as the door cycled open to admit his brother, dragging a protesting First Aid by one arm.

"Fix him," Sunstreaker snarled, twisting the arm he held up behind the Protectobot's back and pushing so that the younger mech sort of leaned over Ratchet's body.

"Sunstreaker, he's _dead_!" 'Aid squealed, obviously frightened.

"Sunny, what are you doing?!" Sideswipe went to pull his brother off of the medic, but Sunstreaker, in his desperation, was not letting go. "C'mon, Sunstreaker, think of what Ratchet would say if he saw this—you know he'd come after you with that arc welder of his. Now let go of the nice Protectobot…" His coaxing words were met with a wordless growl and a baring of dental plates. He tried a different tack. "Look, Sunshine, how's he suppose to fix Ratchet if you keep twisting his arm like that?" he asked bluntly—and finally the yellow twin released his captive, refusing to look at anything but the floor.

First Aid rotated his sore arm carefully, rubbing the hand-shaped dent just above his elbow. He watched Sunstreaker warily, expression hidden by the facemask and visor he wore.

"He's still alive, I know he's still alive," the yellow Lamborghini muttered to himself, wrapping his arms around his own chest. Suddenly he looked up, optics blazing angrily, and both of the other two mechs took an involuntary step back. "I can prove it, too!" he hissed. His gaze shifted to Ratchet, and he flinched at the sight of the scorched holes in the medic's chassis—it was the first time he'd seen their bondmate's body after it was recovered. The wild optics flicked back to his brother. "Sideswipe," he rasped, "come here—I'll prove he's alive, I will!"

Sideswipe hesitated, spark breaking at the madness his brother was displaying. When the yellow twin's expression became pleading, though, he relented with a sigh and stepped within arm's reach of his brother. He was unprepared for how quickly the other Lamborghini would strike.

Suddenly he was on the floor with Sunstreaker on top of him while the yellow mech pried desperately at his chestplate. "What the frag are you doing?" he yelped, just as Sunny found the clasps of his armor and released them, revealing his spark for all to see—and whatever else he may have said died in his vocalizer.

For there, nestled right next to his own spark, was another one, small and weak and flickering fitfully.

"Oh, Primus," Sideswipe whispered, shocked to his core.

"It's_him_," Sunstreaker said fiercely, staring with rapt attention at the miracle in his brother's chest. "I _dreamed_ about it."

"We have to get him to the medbay. Right now," First Aid breathed, stunned.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I have been overwhelmed by the response I've gotten from you guys about the final chapter of Unexpectedly Blue. I appreciate each and every one of your comments--you folks are awesome. Constructive criticism is the essential tool of any author, and you guys have provided very well. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my mad little tales. XD

Also, I would like to tell you to keep an eye out for an upcoming story being written by the evil twin. It's a side story to this piece, and I think it's gonna be cracky enough to hold your attention. I've already read the first bit, and we've been thoroughly discussing the subject, so I'm already hooked myself. XD

And as always, I would like to extend a huge, huge round of thanks to my beta reader, VAWitch, without whom none of these stories would be half what they are.

And now, without further ado, the second chapter of the fourth installment of the 'Twinning the Hatchet' series:

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Immediately upon reaching Autobot City's medical facility, First Aid took complete control of the situation, displaying the confident assurance that he had been forced to acquire over the course of the past few days with the deaths of his creator and his mentor. Cautiously looking up and down the hall for observers and pleased to see none, he ushered the Lamborghini twins into the medbay with their precious burden.

They laid the limp, lifeless form of their bondmate reverently on one of the shiny new repair tables that Ratchet had never gotten the chance to use, and First Aid promptly set to work. He removed Ratchet's spark-chamber—miraculously undamaged—and indicated for Sideswipe to pull up another table alongside the one holding the medic and lie down on it. He also sent a discreet call to his brothers; this was probably going to get ugly very soon.

He reopened the red Lamborghini's chest, revealing the tiny spark that clung desperately to its bonded mate, and, carefully, coaxed it back into its proper spark-chamber. It flickered for a moment, and First Aid's processor nearly froze in terror that it would gutter out, but then it stabilized. He breathed a sigh of relief as he put it into stasis so that it would survive until he had the body rebuilt. He just hoped…

But it would not do to think about that. It was enough, for now, that life had been preserved.

The Lamborghini brothers were watching him with an unnervingly intent gaze as he moved about, closing Sideswipe's chest and generally putting things in order, and did not immediately notice First Aid's own brothers filing quietly into the medbay. Good, maybe there wouldn't be _too_ much of a fight when he did what he had to. Squaring his shoulders—he was CMO, now, and this was _his_ domain—he faced the infamous warrior twins.

"I need you to leave," he said simply, and for a moment there was dead silence.

Then: "What?" The hissing menace in Sunstreaker's voice nearly made him cringe. _Suck it up, First Aid, you're CMO._

"There is a lot that needs to be done, and I can't do it with you two hovering over me. If you won't leave peaceably, then Hot Spot and the others can escort you out," he replied, forcing himself not to lose his authoritative stance. For half a second, he was afraid that Sunstreaker would pounce on him despite the presence of his gestalt-mates, but Blades shifted forward menacingly and, with a disdainful sneer, the yellow Lamborghini backed down.

The twins shared a long look, communicating through the unfathomable medium of their bond, and suddenly Sideswipe slipped off of his table to press a kiss to his lover's cold chevron before pulling his brother out of the medbay with him.

"You okay, 'Aid?" Hot Spot asked solicitously. Primus bless him, but he never once remarked on the unusual situation.

"Yeah," First Aid replied softly, optics flicking over to the body lying still beside them. "I just… yeah."

The Protectobot commander nodded. "We'd better go keep an optic on those two, make sure they don't cause any trouble," he said, and at his gesture the rest of the team followed him out into the hall, though Blades and Streetwise both gave First Aid questioning looks.

Once they had gone, he turned back to look first at the motionless shell of his mentor, and then at the once-dead spark-chamber that now glowed with life—and it occurred to him that, just maybe…

He opened a channel to Swoop, asking his fellow medic to bring in Jazz and Bluestreak for an exam. If his hunch was correct… well, he would cross that bridge when he got there.

In the meantime, he would start work on the miracle he'd already been given.

The four Protectobots who had designated themselves the Lamborghinis' keepers watched the twins warily as they paced in front of the medbay and growled angrily to themselves about having been given the boot.

"Who does he think he is, anyway?" Sunstreaker snarled, coming to a halt and glaring at the closed door with clenched fists.

"The Autobots' Chief Medical Officer, that's who," a smooth voice interrupted, and all six mechs looked up to see their new Prime advancing down the corridor toward them, flanked by Springer and Kup. "And as such," he added, crossing his arms and frowning at the lot of them, "he is well within his rights to lock you out of the medbay." He paused, arched an optic ridge. "Or am I reading the situation wrong?"

"Nah, they got kicked out," Blades chimed in, and it was obvious by his tone that he was deliberately baiting the Lamborghinis. Both older mechs glared daggers at the helicopter—and likely the only thing stopping Sunny from leaping on him was the fact that even _he_ knew better than to tangle with a Prime. Rodimus, to his credit, turned a disapproving look on the errant Protectobot, and Blades visibly wilted under the withering stare. He turned his gaze toward Sunstreaker and looked down at him from his newly-superior height; Sunstreaker sneered back.

Kup stepped in to interrupt the budding contest of wills before it could go any further. His glare swept around to encompass them all. "Red Alert tells us that you lot have been out here causing a ruckus, and it has something to do with Ratchet's body," the old soldier growled, gaze settling on the Lamborghini brothers. "Care to explain?"

"I told you he wasn't dead," Sunstreaker said stubbornly. Prime and his escorts stared at him incredulously.

"Sunstreaker," Rodimus began hesitantly.

"No, Hot R—er, Rodimus, sir, he's telling the truth," Sideswipe insisted softly. "Ratchet—his spark—it was _right here._" He tapped his chestplate, over his own spark chamber. "Our bond—I guess it saved him," he added, optics still a little unfocused from shock and disbelief.

The new Autobot leader shared a dubious look with his two officers. Sideswipe couldn't help the bitterness that welled up in his spark—it should have been Jazz standing there with Prime, not that upstart triplechanger and rusting drill sergeant.

Finally Hot Rod—_no, Rodimus,_ Sideswipe corrected himself—reached past Sunstreaker to press the call button on the comm. unit mounted next to the medbay doors.

"First Aid, what is going on?" Prime demanded as soon as the channel was open. He did not, however, have time to listen to the medic's answer, for at that very second, Swoop came barreling around the corner, dragging a furiously protesting Jazz and followed by an eerily silent, hollow-eyed Bluestreak.

"'Scuse me," the Dinobot squawked imperiously, and then he swept past them into the medbay, taking the saboteur and the gunner with him.

For a long moment, they all just stood and gaped at the closed door.

Then Rodimus muttered, "I'm going in," and keyed in the override code for the lock. None of the other 'Bots in the corridor were the sort to squander an opportunity, so they all piled in behind their leader.

And stopped dead.

Jazz stood in front of Ratchet's spark-chamber, reaching out a shaking hand to touch it with a look of mingled hope and grief, while Bluestreak stared blankly at First Aid.

Snarling, Sunstreaker leaped past the Porsche and snatched up the precious spark just before the black fingers could brush it, clutching it protectively close. He carefully inspected it as though searching for damage before looking back up at Jazz and growling, "Don't _touch_ him."

Apologetically, Sideswipe eased around the saboteur and gently coaxed his brother into putting their bondmate's spark back down. "C'mon, now, Sunny, he wasn't gonna hurt him," the red Lamborghini said soothingly as he pulled his volatile yellow twin over to stand beside Ratchet's body.

"He might've," Sunstreaker mumbled restlessly, a note of distress creeping into his voice. Sideswipe snorted.

"If that was the case, then you grabbing him up like that would have done worse than just touching," the red warrior said mildly. Sunstreaker, optics firmly on the floor, did not deign to reply.

Jazz watched the twins uncertainly for a few moments. He looked like he might have said something, but the new Prime beat him to the punch.

"How is this possible?" he asked in a soft voice, catching and holding First Aid's gaze.

"Honestly?" First Aid murmured in a weary, toneless voice, "I have no idea. Ratchet or Wheeljack might have had some theories on it, but…" He made a quiet noise of frustration and sorrow. "I'm not them," he muttered helplessly. "The only way I can explain it is to call it a miracle, a gift from Primus. The mechanics of it… _Primus_, it should have been _impossible._ It is certainly beyond my knowledge."

"Me Swoop not understand, either," the Dinobot offered, startling everyone by his contribution. "From what me Swoop know about bonds, these four mechs, they should be dead, too," he added grimly, optics flaring as though daring anyone to contradict him. No one bothered; it was a simple truth. Bondmates rarely outlived one another, and the fact that _four_ bonded mechs had survived the near-simultaneous deaths of their bondmates was unusual well beyond the point of coincidence. At least _some_ of them should have followed their mates into deactivation.

First Aid nodded in agreement. "I could understand Sunstreaker and Sideswipe surviving; they each have the other to anchor themselves in. Jazz and Bluestreak, though—I'm sorry, but I have to agree with Swoop. They should not be alive. That's why I wanted to take a look at the two of you," he directed the last at the gunner and the saboteur. "If there's even a chance…"

Jazz nodded sharply and hopped up on a repair table. "Look away, Doc," he said quietly. "Like you said—if there's a chance, however small…" He lay down, obviously fighting down a feeling of anticipation that they all hoped was not false.

Cautiously, almost reluctantly, First Aid approached the prone saboteur. He cycled a deep draught of air through his vents to calm himself, and gently released the catches on the protective plating that hid Jazz's spark. The Porsche, due to the curve of his chestplate, could not see his own spark-chamber while lying down, and he nearly leaped off of the table when the young medic made a soft, strangled noise as the black and white armor slid back. First Aid, thinking quickly despite his shock, pressed a hand down on Jazz's shoulder to keep him down and looked up at the others with optics shining too brightly beneath his visor.

His gaze flicked to his brothers. "Hot Spot," he said unsteadily, "could you and Streetwise go and get Prowl's body for me?"

"Sure, 'Aid" Hot Spot said quietly, and the two Protectobots hurried from the room.

Jazz, expression full of a terrible hope, could finally take it no more and shrugged the ambulance's hand off of his shoulder so that he could sit up. "First Aid… is he—" he cut himself off, unable to say more, already knowing the answer and still needing to hear it to make it real. He desperately clutched at the Protectobot's arm.

He met Jazz's gaze with as fierce a look as the Porsche had ever seen him wear. "The same thing that happened with Sideswipe and Ratchet has occurred with you and Prowl," he confirmed, optics softening as Jazz's face crumpled with joy and relief and the saboteur buried his head in his hands.

Suddenly, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were pushing him out of the way, wrapping their arms around the shuddering Porsche, and Jazz hid his face in Sideswipe's shoulder with a harsh noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. The red Lamborghini murmured soothing nonsense into Jazz's audio as they held him. Sunstreaker merely laid his cheek against the back of the saboteur's shoulder and said nothing, although his optics were suspiciously bright.

A choked noise abruptly drew everyone's attention away from the spectacle of Jazz and the twins and toward Bluestreak. The gunner's face was twisted with emotion, and it became obvious that he was on the verge of losing it.

Without missing a beat, Sunstreaker disengaged himself from the tangle of Porsche and Lamborghini and ghosted over to stand in front of the younger grey mech. He regarded Bluestreak questioningly for a moment, and then carefully, with more consideration than anyone would have credited him with, he drew the distraught Datsun into an embrace. He didn't even flinch when Bluestreak, frantic in his distress, left several scratches on his yellow finish. "C'mon Blue, it's your turn," the Lamborghini said finally, breaking the silence that had fallen over all of them since First Aid's announcement and drawing the gunner toward a repair table.

This time it was Swoop who walked forward. He gently coaxed Bluestreak into lying down, patting the Datsun's shoulder soothingly when he trembled. "It be okay, Bluestreak," the Dinobot crooned, carefully undoing the clasps on the gunner's chestplate. When he had the armor open, he breathed a soft little sigh of relief and, beaming at Blue, patted the grey shoulder again and repeated, "It be okay!" He replaced the plating he'd removed and helped the gunner down off of the repair table. "Want to help get him?" Swoop asked, and Bluestreak, optics wide, nodded a bit too fast. The Dinobot smiled again, and led the smaller mech from the room.

"Primus," Blades said in a quiet, heartfelt voice. "They're _all_ alive. All three of them." They all, except First Aid and Groove, turned to look at the helicopter Protectobot as though they'd forgotten he was there.

Rodimus, in particular, regarded him thoughtfully. Finally the new Prime turned back to First Aid. "Keep me informed," was all he said and, gesturing for Springer and Kup to follow, he left.

"I suppose there's nothin' to be done for the others…" Jazz said quietly, turning his head so that he could look at First Aid with his cheek still pressed to Sideswipe's shoulder. He had closed the plating covering his spark and was now rubbing it absently.

"Has anyone heard anything from Chromia? Or Elita One?" Sideswipe asked. "There've always been rumors…" Jazz gave him an odd look, but no one noticed.

"We haven't heard anything from the femme contingent," Groove said. "And Primus knows we've tried contacting them." Blades nodded and began to comment himself, but was interrupted by Hot Spot and Streetwise, carrying Prowl's shell into the medbay. They were followed shortly afterward by Swoop and Bluestreak, the former carefully bearing Wheeljack's body in his arms while the latter trailed anxiously behind.

"All right," First Aid said softly, looking at Swoop as both inventor and tactician were gently arranged on repair tables, "Let's get this done." Swoop nodded and, by unspoken agreement, went to Wheeljack while First Aid took Prowl. The other mechs in the room watched with wide optics as the two young medics gingerly removed the spark-casings from the shells and then delicately transferred each spark that resided in its respective bondmate's chest back into their proper chambers.

It was easier this time around, First Aid reflected as he reverently placed both sparks in stasis, awaiting the moment that the chassis were repaired. Perhaps because he was not so much in shock as he had been when Sunstreaker had wrenched his brother's chest open to reveal the second spark—Ratchet's—clinging to life within. He tried not to think that he now held these mechs' lives in his hands; it was his first real crisis as Chief Medical Officer, and he was determined that he would do Ratchet and Wheeljack proud. He could see the same determination shining in Swoop's optics as the Dinobot put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and he nodded gratefully to the bigger mech. He could count on Swoop to stick with him through the whole ordeal—for he did not doubt that that was exactly what it would be.

He did not hold any illusions that this would be easy. Or that what they'd already done was the hard part—that, he knew, would come soon enough.

"How long 'til you can get 'em back in their bodies?" Jazz asked as he leaned down to stroke one finger along the side of Prowl's spark-casing, his face full of wonder and an inexpressible joy.

"However long it takes to repair them," First Aid replied wearily, finally letting himself see just how much damage had been done to the three downed Autobots, along with how much work it would take before they would be even marginally functional again.

"Could take long time," Swoop added. He brushed the edges of the wounds in Ratchet's chest. "This much damage, it not easy to fix—but him First Aid and me Swoop work fast as we can. Got plenty materials, that not problem, at least." He grinned suddenly as a thought occurred to him. "Him Ratchet will be very happy with new medbay, me Swoop think. Him always complain about old one," he added, optics twinkling.

Sideswipe chuckled weakly. "Yeah, he did, didn't he," the red Lamborghini murmured.

"I'm never letting him out of my sight again," Sunstreaker muttered possessively, crossing his arms over his chestplate and glaring at Ratchet's body as though he expected the empty shell to sit up and angrily protest such treatment.

Jazz snorted and looked up from his bondmate's spark-casing. "Don't you think that'll be little hard to pull off, Sunny m'mech?" he asked dryly.

Sideswipe breathed a little sigh of relief when his brother didn't react to the saboteur's comment; Sunstreaker was unpredictable at best, and his temper had been even shorter than usual since Ratchet's 'death'.

"We'd better get started," First Aid offered nervously. "The less time they spend in stasis, the better." Swoop squawked his agreement.

"Maybe we call him Perceptor to help?" the Dinobot suggested dubiously, eyeing the three shells as though uncertain where, or with whom, to begin.

"No," the Protectobot replied, suddenly decisive. "We can do this ourselves." Having shored up his resolve, he moved to Ratchet, choosing to repair him first because he had been the catalyst for all of this.

"Alright," Swoop said quietly, and neither said anything more as they got to work.

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It took weeks to finish the repairs. It was done in secret, in an attempt to prevent well-meaning interruptions and unnecessarily raised hopes; it was not at all certain that they would be able to pull this off even with the three sparks pulsing bright and strong in their casings. They kept the three bodies in a locked isolation ward that branched off of the main room and worked on them in their off hours.

First Aid's brothers helped with guard duty when they could. Swoop had wanted to enlist his own brothers, but had reluctantly had to admit that perhaps the Dinobots were not the best mechs for keeping things to themselves, and he had agreed not to tell them even though First Aid could see that it made him feel miserably guilty.

By the end, they were stressed nearly to the breaking point. There had been times when they had both been afraid that the three mechs they were rebuilding were irreparable, and always, always were they being watched like hawks by the trio's bondmates.

Rodimus insisted on being there when they powered them up for the first time; he brought Springer, Arcee, and Kup with him. The Protectobots had also crowded into the little room with them, anxious to see their creator reactivated, and Swoop rather wished that there had been room for the Dinobots as well. Jazz and the Lamborghini brothers just ignored the gaggle of onlookers, reserving their whole attention for their respective bondmates, but Bluestreak, standing restlessly next to Wheeljack, kept darting nervous looks around the room as though expecting someone to pounce on him.

First Aid was nervous, as well. The three mechs looked pristine; new paint gleamed in the overhead lights, and they could have simply been recharging. There had been no difficulty in reintroducing the sparks to the shells, but the young medic could not shake the sense that something was wrong—and he had a feeling that he knew what it was. It was, after all, not an uncommon occurrence; it was just not often that it was a problem, since dead mechs did not generally return to life.

Feeling as though his spark might leap out of his chest from the sheer terror at having to face all of these people in the knowledge that all might not be right, he made a sound akin to a human clearing his throat for attention.

The room fell to dead silence.

Fidgeting uncomfortably, he said as calmly as he could manage, "We'll power them up now," and nodded to Swoop, who stood at Ratchet's side, waiting for his signal. There was a sensation as though the very room itself was holding its breath, and the Dinobot opened a panel in their mentor's side and brought him out of stasis lock. First Aid went to Prowl and brought him online as well, and as he did that, Swoop moved on to Wheeljack. Within moments of one another, three sets of blue optics that no one had ever thought would see again began to glow.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Whew! Finally got this monstrosity done! I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter up; hopefully the fact that it's GINORMOUS will make up for it. O.O;

Once again, special thanks go to VAWitch for being kind enough to beta read this for me, and to my sis for contributing ideas and being supportive. Also, to everyone that left a review or even just read this and enjoyed it, thank you so very much. You all overwhelm me. XD

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The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife as Ratchet blinked up at the mechs standing over him. "I… know you, don't I?" he asked softly, locking optics with a dark-helmed red mech. He shook his head a little, trying to clear it; he felt sluggish and slow, and there was something he was forgetting, something important…

He didn't miss the confusion dawning on the face of the mech that he felt he ought to have known. "Yeah… yeah, you know me, Ratch," was the soft reply. The red mech brought up one dark hand to gently stroke his cheek. He shuttered his optics and leaned into the touch, because that seemed to be the right thing to do.

He wondered why everyone was so tense. He unshuttered his optics again and, with the help of a yellow mech that strongly reminded him of the red one he'd already spoken to, he sat up to look around. A wave of vertigo washed over him as he became upright, and for a moment all he could do was lean against the yellow mech and pant for air to cool his stressed systems. He heard a soft murmur of, "Easy, Ratch," in his audios, and he once again got the overwhelming sense that he _knew_ this mech. _Sideswipe. And Sunstreaker,_ his mind supplied, but it had come from an unidentified external source, rather than his own databanks—for some reason, he kept getting an error message that some of the information stored there was corrupt.

It was probably due to his recent… activities.

The memory of what he'd been doing before he'd passed out was beginning to come back in bits and pieces. _Primus,_ he thought dazedly, _that's the _last_ time I get _that_ overcharged._ He glanced around the room, trying to get his bearings—he was apparently in some kind of medbay or hospital room.

There were two other mechs lying on repair berths, as he was. He shook his head again—had he managed to injure himself? He was startled to see that his roommate, Wheeljack, was one of the two, even though he _knew_ that his friend had not gotten over-energized. The engineer had also sat up, and now looked confused as he tried to soothe a distraught young grey mech in his arms. The other mech, a black and white of the same make and model as the grey one, still lay prostrate, talking calmly with another black and white who seemed to be barely holding back his own emotional outburst.

There were a number of other mechs in the room as well, but a red and white mech wearing a visor and facemask (Ratchet had a feeling he was the medic in charge) took it upon himself to shoo some of them out. While he did that, the yellow mech—_Sunstreaker,_ his mind whispered once again, and again he got the feeling that it had come from outside his own CPU—hopped up on the berth behind him and tucked him in against his chest protectively. The red one—_Sideswipe_—seemed content to lean up against the both of them, and for some reason, though he couldn't recall what it was, he felt… safe with them.

Too hung over to figure out why it seemed so right, he snuggled a little deeper into Sunstreaker's chassis and contented himself with observing. The visored red and white mech paused to obviously collect himself and then turned to face the rest of the room. Ratchet's gaze flicked over the mechs not currently attached to one of those resting on a berth.

There was one really big one done in maroon with flames across his hood; Ratchet got the sense that, for all of his evident power, he was also very young. The maroon one was flanked by two green mechs, one old and one young, and a pink (and altogether dangerous-looking) femme that appeared to be perhaps the same age as the younger green one. The final mech left in the room was also the largest and most colorful. He was a menacing-looking fellow, but something in his demeanor belied his appearance.

"What Swoop and I feared would happen has occurred," the red and white mech said, and Ratchet could easily hear the nervousness in his voice. It made him think that he was, perhaps, very young, or else very inexperienced. The big fearsome mech—he must be Swoop—made a mournful sound that might have been agreement. The red and white continued on. "It's fairly common, when a mech… goes through what these three have endured… for the memory banks to become corrupted. Of course, this is usually not a problem, since…" he trailed off, to all appearances momentarily unable to continue. He shook his head. "In any case, they all appear to have suffered some significant memory loss, although their core programming has been unaffected. There's… no way of knowing whether or not it is reversible, though we will, of course, do our best—"

"What happened to us?" Ratchet interrupted, becoming concerned. He felt Sunstreaker and Sideswipe shift uneasily at his question.

The big maroon fellow opened his mouth to speak, but the black and white on the repair berth cut him off.

"We died," he said simply, and all heads snapped around to stare at him as he sat up.

"We… did?" Wheeljack asked weakly, vocal indicators flashing in shock. The grey mech that he held, having apparently regained his composure, patted his arm comfortingly.

Ratchet grimaced. He didn't feel as though he had died… though he supposed that he really had no frame of reference with which to compare. He shook his head doubtfully and returned his attention to what was going on around him.

"What do you remember, Prowl?" the maroon mech was asking of the black and white. His entourage gave each other uneasy looks; the situation seemed to be making them uncomfortable.

Prowl frowned and then, hesitantly, replied, "I… remember a shuttle… and an enemy that surprised us. I reached out to someone, at the last minute—" He turned to look at the other black and white mech. "You," he said softly. "I don't remember your name," he added, sounding apologetic.

"Jazz," the mech replied quietly, reaching out to brush Prowl's cheek with the tips of his fingers. His expression was of bittersweet joy.

"Jazz," Prowl repeated, suddenly shy, and Jazz smiled brightly at him. Ratchet looked away, feeling as though he were intruding on something private.

The yellow mech's arms tightened around him almost imperceptibly. "Do you remember us, Ratchet?" he asked, sounding desperate. His tone, and the curiously fond feelings he engendered, made Ratchet want to lie to him, to say yes, I remember you, but it probably would hurt him more if he did.

"I'm sorry, but I don't," he answered truthfully, and turned to bury his face in the yellow armor when both red and yellow mechs made a soft noise of dismay and unhappiness. Feeling the yellow mech—Sunstreaker—shuddering with emotion around him, he added quietly, "You told me your names, didn't you? Sunstreaker and Sideswipe." He was beginning to have an idea as to why he felt so at ease around them—though how such a thing could exist between _three_ mechs, and how it had come about in the first place, he was not quite sure. Maybe it had something to do with the corrupted files in his memory banks.

Sideswipe looked at him with such hope in his optics that Ratchet shivered. "Yeah," he said, "we told you our names. We're glad that you heard them—we're glad you're alive. We thought we lost you." Ratchet nodded, and then decided to just come out and ask them about what he suspected.

"I'm bonded to you, aren't I?" the medic inquired softly.

Sideswipe's optics widened, and then he gave him a relieved grin. "Yeah, Ratch, you are," he confirmed, pleased. "The first mech to ever bond to a set of twins—that we know of," he added, optics twinkling mischievously. "Old Smokey—sorry, Smokescreen—has had a running bet for the past ten years as to how long it would take us to drive you batty."

"Twins?" he asked faintly. Well, that could possibly explain why he seemed to be linked to both of them. Ratchet blinked at them, startled, and began to say more, but the young red and white mech was speaking again.

"With your permission, Rodimus, I'd like to place all of these mechs on indefinite medical leave," he said diffidently, and the big maroon mech regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before nodding.

"I trust your judgment, First Aid," Rodimus answered gravely. He smiled a grim smile. "Besides, with the Decepticons so docile lately, we're not so short-handed that we can't spare four more off of the duty roster."

Ratchet couldn't help the wide-eyed stare that he gave the mech named Rodimus. It was another shock to pile on top of the ones he'd already had. _Is this youngling our Prime?_ he wondered to himself. _And have the Decepticons really escalated their attacks so much? What else have I missed?_ He knew Wheeljack well enough to be able to tell that his friend was asking himself the same questions.

First Aid merely nodded, oblivious to their reactions and looking relieved at having gotten the big mech's approval.

The older green mech snorted. "I guess all that's left now is to let everyone else know what's happened, so we don't get any reports of ghosts in the corridors," he grumped, and the younger green fellow grinned at him.

"C'mon, Kup, you gotta admit that it would be funny to hear all the 'ghost' stories," he teased, and Kup scowled back.

"Yeah, it'll be funny until someone's energon pump fails from shock at seeing a 'dead' friend in the hallway," he snapped. "Sometimes, Springer, you have all the common sense of one of those Earth geese." Springer looked more amused than insulted.

The femme cast an exasperated look at the ceiling at their sniping. "Primus save me from idiots," she muttered, and then sighed. "Come on, you guys, the faster we get out of here, the faster we can get started on damage control." Her gaze turned to encompass the three mechs on the repair tables. "It's good to know that the shuttle run was not a complete disaster. Maybe it'll restore some hope to the ones who've lost it," she said softly, meeting each of their optics in turn before pivoting on her heel and leaving.

Rodimus nodded his agreement. "If there's anything you need, anything at all, just let me know," he added, and followed her out, taking Springer with him.

Kup hesitated at the door, looking as though he might say something, but he finally shook his head in frustration and left without uttering a word.

For a long moment, there was silence, and then Jazz murmured, "Rodimus ain't Optimus, and Kup definitely ain't Ironhide, but they've got their sparks in the right place."

Sideswipe nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, "but it still feels… wrong, y'know? Optimus was Prime for so long that he seemed indestructible—and it shoulda been you and Prowl with him, too, Jazz, and you know it. You guys have helped keep this outfit together when we thought that it would surely fall apart—"

Jazz made a derisive noise. "If you haven't noticed by now, Siders, we ain't exactly in any kind of shape to run an army anymore—not to mention I've been gettin' the feelin' that we're kinda superfluous now, what with the regime change." Prowl gave his fellow black and white a curious look as he continued. "I don't know about you, but I'm done with this war. I've lost too much—I'm gonna retire, as soon as I know that Prowl's gonna be alright." He glared at Sideswipe as though daring the red mech to protest. Sideswipe just avoided the visored mech's gaze and did not reply.

"I would rather…" the little grey mech interjected slowly, speaking to the room at large for the first time, "I would rather that that day had never happened—even though we ended up defeating the Decepticons for good. I would rather still be fighting Megatron and his goons than have had to go through all of that. I don't know why I didn't die when I thought I had lost Wheeljack." He shivered a little. The engineer soothed him almost instinctively, looking surprised to find himself doing so.

"I know what you mean, Blue," Sunstreaker said in a quiet voice, absently stroking a gentle pattern on Ratchet's shoulder.

"Well, I'm still confused," Wheeljack said plaintively.

The big multicolored mech stepped forward. "Us Swoop and First Aid will explain," he said mildly. Ratchet wondered if the large mech was mentally impaired—but if that was the case, then why was he even there? "First, though, me Swoop need to know what exactly everyone remembers," he added, peering around curiously at them all. "Him Prowl already said some memories, have any more?" he asked solicitously. Prowl shook his head.

"Nothing beyond what I've already related. Everything before the attack is a blur—most of the attack itself is a blur. Frankly, I'm surprised that I can remember my own designation, considering the state of my memory banks," the black and white replied ruefully.

Swoop hummed thoughtfully and turned his optics to Wheeljack, who shrugged.

"I can remember all the way up 'til I graduated from the Academy—the rest is corrupted," the white mech said, vocal indicators flashing his confusion. "I'm trying to think of a way to recover it, but so far I'm drawing a blank." He paused, and then added, "Of course, it may just sort itself out in time…" He subsided into muttering to himself as he was wont to do when thinking about a particularly stubborn problem. The grey mech (_Blue,_ Ratchet thought to himself, _and not a speck of blue anywhere on him_) gave him an amused look. Ratchet felt a little comforted at finding something so familiar in all of this strangeness.

"Ratchet?" First Aid asked hesitantly. "What about you?"

Ratchet shook his head. "I—remember being rather… messily overcharged," he admitted hesitantly; he ignored Wheeljack's snort of amusement and Swoop's giggle. "I'm an intern at a hospital in Iacon. Or, I was, at any rate. I had just gotten off of a rough shift and, well..." He shrugged. "The next thing I know, I'm waking up here."

First Aid gave a weary sigh, and Swoop walked over to pat his shoulder. "Then you don't remember anything of the war, or Earth," the red and white muttered, sounding disheartened.

Swoop made a noncommittal sound. "We two probably not best to explain what happened, then," he said wryly.

Jazz chuckled unexpectedly. "Yeah, you'll likely hafta leave it to those of us who've been here from the beginning," he said, amused. "You're what, about twenty Earth-years old, Swoop? And First Aid is a few years younger," he mused.

On seeing Wheeljack's questioning look, Blue remarked, "Those of us who were Earth-bound when the Ark crashed have pretty much adopted the local time measurements here—there are a little more than eighty-three years in a vorn."

The green-marked white mech goggled at them, having worked out the conversion in his head. "And _you're_ the ones that repaired us? A couple of sparklings?" he demanded.

First Aid stiffened defensively. "I am Rodimus Prime's Chief Medical Officer. My creators and instructors were the very best that Cybertron had to offer," he retorted, glaring. "I am programmed to handle nearly any medical situation that I am faced with, and Swoop has had more than adequate training, as well."

Jazz burst into raucous laughter at that.

"What is so funny?" Wheeljack asked indignantly, crossing his arms over his chestplate.

When the black and white mech just shook his head, still laughing helplessly, Sunstreaker spoke up. "It's the fact that the _creators_ and _instructors_ he's referring to are _you_ and _Ratchet_—that, and apparently First Aid has finally decided to grow a pair," he said dryly, over the sound of Jazz's mirth. Wheeljack and Ratchet turned to gape at the yellow mech. First Aid looked embarrassed.

"A pair of what?" Prowl wondered, puzzled. Jazz just laughed harder. Prowl was beginning to look concerned for his fellow black and white; his amusement seemed a touch hysterical.

"I think perhaps some explanations are in order," Ratchet said coolly, though inside he was roiling with surprise at the latest addition to the string of revelations.

Sideswipe snorted. "_I'll_ do it, since that ninny is too busy cutting up," he said, eyeing Jazz warily. Ratchet twitched nervously when the red mech's voice sounded in his head in a mental aside. :Calm down, love. You had to have realized that there were gonna be some big things that you've forgotten.: His voice was soothing enough that Ratchet couldn't help but relax at least a bit. Sunstreaker tried to reinforce the calm as best he could, but the medic did not miss the conflicted feelings that the yellow mech was fighting to keep under control.

It was finally beginning to sink in that he was _bonded_ to these two mechs that he didn't remember knowing. He shivered at the realization.

He tried his best to pay attention as Sideswipe launched into a rambling account of a brutal civil war that had torn their homeworld apart and the desperate expedition for energy sources that had landed them on this small blue planet, but inside he was still reeling from the impact of _knowing_ that he shared a soul-deep connection with this obviously rough-and-tumble pair of brothers. He forced himself to focus when the red mech's voice became somber and he began to relate the events in which he and a number of other mechs, including their much-beloved Prime, had apparently met their demise. Sideswipe's vocalizer glitched only once—when he told them about how Megatron and a squad of his most capable warriors had hijacked the shuttle that Ratchet had been riding in—and Sunstreaker had been quick to reach out and clasp his brother's hand in a brief gesture of comfort.

Ratchet still couldn't quite wrap his mind around having been dead. He shuttered his optics and leaned back against Sunstreaker as Sideswipe finally stopped speaking. The yellow mech wrapped his arms around him possessively. He finally looked out and met Wheeljack's gaze; Blue had also gotten upset at the retelling of their 'deaths' and was clinging to the engineer like a limpet.

"This is all… a lot to take in," The medic said slowly, never looking away from his best friend's stare. Out of the corner of his optics, he could see Prowl's uncertain expression, and the way that Jazz hovered over him.

First Aid made a peculiar noise in order to get their attention; when he was sure that everyone was listening, he said quietly, "I think, for now, it would be best for you all to go back to your quarters and get some rest. Sunstreaker, Sides, Jazz, Bluestreak—make sure they get some energon, and straight into recharge afterwards." The four that he named off nodded. The young mech paused, and then, in a sudden bout of mischief, told them, "And so help me, if I hear that you lot have done anything more strenuous than lifting an energon cube, I'll reformat you all into toasters."

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker looked at each other, looked at Ratchet, and then burst into laughter. The red mech walked over to clap the young medic on the shoulder. "Been picking up more than just surgical procedures from ol' Ratchet the Hatchet, eh, kid?" he chortled, and First Aid looked torn between pride and annoyance.

"Ratchet the Hatchet?" Ratchet demanded, appalled by the nickname that he had to have acquired during his time with the Autobots.

This time Jazz joined in the laughter. "Yeah, nobody sane pisses off the Hatchet, not if he wants his head to stay attached to his shoulders and his alt mode to be the same one he walked into medbay with," he quipped, and Ratchet just stared at him in astonishment.

"Was I really that bad?" he asked, horrified at the implication that he'd treated his patients so poorly.

Sideswipe snickered. "Babe, I've been nailed in the head so many times with that slagging wrench of yours, I'm pretty sure I've got a permanent dent," he said, amused. "Oh, don't get so worked up," he added, obviously having sensed how upset Ratchet was getting over the thought. "In your defense, we all pretty much drove you to distraction, and we know that the only reason you got so mad was because you worried about all of us so much. Primus knows we're well aware that it would have killed you to lose any of us. You told me once that, if everyone feared you enough to avoid the medbay, then maybe they might fear you enough to avoid stupid injuries."

"Looking back on it, we were pretty bad about taking you for granted," Jazz added apologetically. "I know it had to have fragged you off pretty royally."

Sunstreaker snorted. "Understatement of the millennium," he muttered. "You should have seen the scratches he put in my paint when we had to calm him down."

Sideswipe snorted. "Oh, hell, Sunny, you didn't give a damn about the scratches at the time—"

"Enough talk," Swoop interrupted suddenly, cutting the argument off before it could begin. "Rest now. Go on, shoo!" and he flapped his hands back and forth in a gesture for them to leave.

"Alright, alright, Mother Hen, we're leaving!" Jazz chuckled, helping Prowl down off of his repair table.

"C'mon, Ratch, let's get you out of here," Sideswipe murmured and, with the aid of his brother, got the medic upright. Wheeljack insisted on getting to his feet on his own, but ended up leaning heavily on Bluestreak, who frowned at him worriedly.

Ratchet finally got the chance to talk to Wheeljack once they gone through the medbay proper and out into the corridor. "Are you alright, 'Jack?" he asked softly, walking up beside his friend with the twins shadowing him closely. He barely paid any attention when Jazz and Prowl went a different way.

The engineer gave him a frazzled look. "As well as can be expected, I guess," he replied uncertainly. He glanced nervously at Bluestreak, who smiled at him encouragingly but didn't let go of his arm.

"Do you really believe this slag about us _dying?_"

Wheeljack shrugged. "I… dunno. It adds up, I suppose, if you think about it—the corruption in our memory files, the fact that I'm _bonded_—" Bluestreak winced and looked away with a hurt expression at Wheeljack's tone. The look on the engineer's face softened. "Aw, I'm sorry," he said quietly, patting the hand twined around his arm comfortingly.

"It _was_ your idea," Bluestreak replied, his voice so low that they had to turn up the gain on their audios to hear it.

"I don't have any reason not to believe you," Wheeljack said reassuringly. "It's just… frustrating, not being able to remember something that important." The grey mech nodded, apparently mollified.

The silence dragged on for a moment, and then Ratchet ventured, "So you're bonded too?"

Wheeljack snorted. "Didn't I just say so?" he asked dryly, arching an optic ridge at his friend. He blinked. "Waitaklick—you said 'too'?"

The medic's lips quirked in a small smile at having flustered his friend. He jerked his head toward his red and yellow escorts. Wheeljack stared at him with wide optics. "Which one?" he inquired warily. Bluestreak snickered, and the engineer turned his startled look on his bondmate. "What is so funny?" he asked, suspicious.

The grey mech just gave him an expression of wide-eyed innocence, just as Ratchet replied, "_Both_ of them."

Wheeljack's vocal indicators flashed bright orange in surprise. "You're glitching," he said. "That's not possible!"

"I'm not glitching—they're twins," Ratchet retorted.

"Are you serious?!"

"Serious as a heart attack," Sideswipe interjected cheerfully. When he got nothing but a pair of blank stares, he muttered, "Never mind—local saying."

Their attention was abruptly drawn away from their conversation when Sunstreaker spat, "Fragging hell!" Ratchet looked up to see a huge mech rounding the corner just ahead of them at about the same time that the mech saw them.

"Slag—it's Grimlock!" Sideswipe had time to hiss, and suddenly Grimlock was bounding down the hall toward them, bellowing Wheeljack and Ratchet's names. "Subtle, Grimlock is not," the red mech muttered in an aside to them before the big mech reached them.

"Him Kup not lie!" the Dinobot boomed joyfully, scooping Wheeljack up in a crushing, though thankfully brief, hug before anyone could stop him. "You Wheeljack and Ratchet _are_ alive!" He turned to give Ratchet a hug, too, but Sunstreaker and Sideswipe managed to be in his way, and he growled in frustration.

"You Twins move!" he snarled angrily, looking as though he would move them himself if they didn't comply. Fortunately for them, Kup chose that very moment to come barreling around the corner, a stream of invective aimed at Grimlock spewing from his vocalizer.

"Fraggit, Grimlock, didn't I tell you not to go chasing off after them?" he demanded over the noise of his own cooling fans—apparently he'd been running after the Dinobot commander long enough to make his systems heat up from the exertion. "Now look there, you've probably scared them out of their processors. Don't you remember me tellin' you that they don't know who you are anymore, you bolt-brain?" Wheeljack did, indeed, look a little stunned at the way he'd been manhandled.

"Me Grimlock not bolt-brain!" Grimlock protested, wilting a bit under Kup's tirade. "Me Grimlock just wanted to see him Wheeljack and him Ratchet!"

"Yeah, well, you can gawk at 'em later, when they've had a little more time to recover," the old green mech said firmly, herding the bigger 'Bot away despite his protests. "Sorry," he called back to the others, "he got away from me when I wasn't looking!" and then they vanished around the corner.

Sideswipe snorted as they continued on their way. "Kup's the only one besides you two, Prime, and Ironhide that can make the Dinobots mind," he told Ratchet and Wheeljack, sounding torn between irritation and amusement. "Except Swoop. Swoop's pretty reasonable," he added thoughtfully.

"Are you okay, 'Jack?" Bluestreak was asking anxiously. "Because it looked like he squeezed you pretty hard. I'm gonna give him a piece of my mind next time I see him, he knows better than to go around doing stuff like that by now—"

"Blue, if you ever decided to give Grimlock a piece of your mind, I think he'd make you into an itty-bitty Datsun pancake," Sideswipe interrupted, chuckling.

"He would not!" The grey mech insisted sulkily. "He's not fast enough to catch me, especially if I transform into my alt mode, not to mention that Kup would do all sorts of nasty things to him if he _did_ manage to turn me into a Datsun-pancake—"

"Primus, could someone please shut him up? I just got this horrible mental image of Kup doing '_nasty things_' to Grimlock, and now I feel the need to bleach out my processors," Sunstreaker groaned, though his antagonistic tone was belied by the amused glint in his optics. Ratchet got the distinct impression that Bluestreak's garrulity pleased both twins, for some odd reason.

Why Sunstreaker might want to bleach his CPU puzzled him, though.

Bluestreak snorted and gave Sunny an annoyed look. "That's disgusting," he said didactically. "You spend too much time surfing the internet," he added, eyeing the big yellow mech warily.

Ratchet and Wheeljack exchanged glances; Wheeljack just shrugged, indicating he had no more idea of what they were talking about than the medic did.

"Well, this is our stop," Bluestreak announced suddenly, stopping before one of the doors that lined the hall.

"Yeah, we're a couple of doors on up," Sideswipe replied. "I'll swing by and check on you in a bit, Blue—I'm gonna head on down and get some energon while everyone gets settled in, and if you want I'll drop you off a couple of cubes on my way back."

"Sure, I'd really appreciate it, Sides, that is, if you don't mind. I didn't really want to have to leave him so soon and—"

Sideswipe waved away his rambling concerns. "No prob, Blue. You know I'll help you any way I can," he said with a cheeky grin. Ratchet had just enough time to grip Wheeljack's hand briefly before he and Bluestreak vanished into what was apparently their quarters.

The twins led the medic to another door just a short distance down the hall and keyed the door open; inside were surprisingly spacious quarters. Ratchet had expected something a little more Spartan, considering that this was a military organization. Granted, it was by no means luxurious, but it was no less comfortable than the apartment he'd been sharing with Wheeljack in Iacon.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stood back as he wandered about, exploring the room. There were a great many things that he was not familiar with, but there was no mistaking the elaborate gaming center the pair had set up. He wondered how much of this stuff was his—if any of it was—and how long he'd lived here.

And whether he'd ever remember it again.

"You've never been in these rooms before," Sunstreaker abruptly spoke up.

"Beg your pardon?" Ratchet asked, startled away from his examination of the large display device that dominated the entertainment area.

"You were stationed on Moonbase One," Sideswipe explained. "You've been gone since before they finished the City. Pit, you were only supposed to be Earthside for a couple of days while the shuttle was loaded and refueled for the return trip. You were gonna inspect the new medbay while you were here, and me and Sunny were gonna show you our quarters. We… didn't get the chance."

"We missed you," Sunstreaker said, and though he made no move toward the medic, Ratchet was acutely aware, via his growing awareness of the bond between the three of them, of how badly the yellow mech wanted a very physical form of reassurance from him that this was not a dream.

Ratchet was not quite certain how to respond to Sunstreaker's blatant desire of him. He'd certainly interfaced with his share of mechs and femmes alike, so it was not like he was inexperienced, but working through his internship at the hospital had eaten up all of his free time for such activities. He suddenly realized that he felt nervous and awkward—and it didn't help that Sunstreaker was quite possibly the most gorgeous mech he'd ever laid optics on, with his brother running a very close second.

Thankfully, Sideswipe saved him from having to answer. "Ease up on him, Sunny," the red mech said quietly. "He's not ready to really deal with us and the bond just yet."

Sunstreaker heaved a shuddering sigh and nodded—and Ratchet could feel, through their link, exactly what his acceptance of his brother's statement had cost him.

Sideswipe regarded his twin grimly. "I'm gonna go and get everyone some energon. Will you be alright?" he asked in a soft voice, optics never leaving Sunstreaker's.

"I'll be fine," the yellow mech replied, a touch sullenly.

Sideswipe eyed him doubtfully, but he didn't question his brother as he left the room.

Once he was gone, Sunstreaker stalked past Ratchet to flop down on the berth. He lay on his front and propped his chin on his folded hands, staring at the medic with that unnervingly intent blue gaze.

Ratchet fidgeted. "So… now what?" he asked tentatively. Sunstreaker just shrugged. The medic scrubbed a hand across his face wearily, and then—gingerly—he sat down beside the yellow mech on the berth. Sunstreaker's optics tracked his every move. Finally, the yellow twin spoke.

"You really don't remember anything?" he asked softly. Ratchet shook his head mutely, and the warrior heaved a sigh and rolled over onto his back. "_Fraggit!_" he snarled, startling Ratchet into jumping. "If those fraggers Megatron and Starscream weren't already dead, _I'd rip them to shreds with my own fragging bare hands!_" The medic regarded him uncertainly, not sure of what response to make to the violent outburst.

"Sunstreaker…" Ratchet trailed off anxiously. The yellow twin shook his head, suddenly calm again.

"Kiss me," he said as he raised his optics to meet Ratchet's, and beneath the demanding words, his tone was pleading.

Ratchet frowned. "I'm not sure…" He was cut off when a golden hand snaked out and yanked him down so that their lips met in a crash and squeal of metal on metal. At the same time, the medic could feel Sunstreaker reaching out to him through the bond between them. Overwhelmed and confused, he drew away mentally and physically, and then regretted it when the yellow mech's hurt and desperation and disappointment became almost palpable.

"Fraggit," Sunstreaker whispered feelingly. The shutters on his optics slid closed, and a tangible distance grew between them despite the fact that neither mech moved. After a long, tense moment, Sunstreaker finally looked at him again. "You're the only person, besides Sideswipe, that I've ever said 'I love you' to, and meant it with everything I am," he said wearily. Ratchet waited for him to say more, but he had fallen silent, and the medic shifted uneasily in his seat on the berth.

"Maybe…" Ratchet began timidly. "Maybe… you could tell me something, a… story… or some such thing, and it might… help me remember? After all, the files are there, it's just that they're corrupted…"

Sunstreaker's optics visibly brightened, and he nodded slowly, thoughtfully. He cocked his head to the side and regarded the medic with a considering gaze. "What should I start with?" he asked, curious and hopeful.

"Well, how did we meet?"

Sunstreaker snorted and arched an optic ridge at him. "Long story short? I got carried into medbay in pieces at a time when Sideswipe was still missing in action. I knew he was still alive, but…" He shrugged. "In any case, no one wanted to deal with me, so they gave me to the new guy—you. By the time you were done, I had thoroughly learned to keep my mouth fragging well shut unless I had something pleasant to say. After that, neither I nor Sideswipe would let anyone else work on us."

Ratchet stared at him in astonishment. "What, because I was mean to you?" he asked, startled.

"Hmph. No, because you were the only one of the lot that we respected," was the reply. Sunstreaker's lips curled up in a tiny smile. "You must have thought we hated you, as much as we pestered you," he said with quiet amusement.

The medic was still watching him with wide optics, trying to think of what to say, when Sideswipe came back in and unsubspaced three energon cubes. The red mech handed the first to Ratchet and the second to his brother, keeping the last for himself.

The medic was surprised to find himself downing the cube hungrily. He hadn't realized that his energy levels were that low. He nearly refused when Sideswipe pressed his own cube into his hands, but took it instead when he saw the stubborn look in the other mech's optics, and that one was consumed just as quickly as the first. Sunstreaker looked as though he might like to offer his, as well, but Ratchet shook his head—a cursory scan told him that the yellow twin was operating on less than optimal fuel levels himself, and the two cubes the medic had already had were enough to keep him satisfied for the time being.

He did not protest when Sideswipe insisted that he follow First Aid's instructions and recharge, meekly lying down on the berth and trying to keep his nervousness from showing when they wrapped him up in their arms. Deep in his spark, it felt good, and right, and safe to be curled up between them, and he let that warm feeling lull him into recharge.

* * *

Sunstreaker met his brother's gaze over the slumbering form of their bondmate. "He's not the same, Siders," the yellow Lamborghini said despairingly. "He doesn't remember us at all."

"I know," Sideswipe replied sorrowfully, gently stroking the white helm. Ratchet stirred in his recharge, instinctively responding to the caress with a wordless murmur of appreciation. "He still _knows_ us though—the bond makes sure of that," he added fiercely. Sunstreaker nodded, but Sideswipe could tell that he was still upset.

Sideswipe sighed, and reached out to grip his brother's hand reassuringly. "At least he's alive, bro—and as long as he's alive, we can hope. We'll just have to take it one day at a time, is all," he said softly.

"Yeah," Sunstreaker said uncertainly, and neither of them said anything more as they slipped into recharge themselves.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Alright, so this one took me a little longer to crank out, on account of certain saboteurs refusing to let me into their headspaces. O.O;

And yes, that's right, saboteurs—this chap is definitely Prowl/Jazz. The next will be Wheeljack/Bluestreak, so if P/J is not your cuppa, feel free to skip this one, though you might miss something important (or not -.-;).

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and also to the fabulous VAWitch for beta-reading. XD

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Jazz was not sure whether he would rather jump up and laugh for joy, or break down and wail in despair. His optics hungrily took in the details of Prowl's resting face, but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe that this was real.

It was all so unfair.

His beautiful, logical Prowl, come back to him through impossible odds, barely even remembered his own name.

He supposed it was Primus having a laugh at him, payback for all the mischief he'd caused in his life—though he couldn't for the spark of him think of what he'd done that was so terrible as to deserve _this._ (So, sure, he'd occasionally helped the Lamborghini twins in some of their nefarious plots, but, honestly…!)

Prowl shifted restlessly, and his optics unshuttered to look into Jazz's, hidden behind the visor. The saboteur had the feeling that his bondmate had seen right through his impassive expression to the roiling emotions underneath, and it unsettled him a little.

"Good morning," Jazz said quietly.

Prowl cocked his head quizzically. "Good morning," he echoed, and then frowned. "Why do you say good morning, even if you do not think that it is particularly good?" he asked, puzzled.

"It's just a greetin', Prowler," the saboteur replied, feeling his lips quirk in a smile despite his dismal mood. It was just such a _Prowl_ thing to ask that it comforted him somewhat.

"It doesn't make much sense," the tactician commented, but made no further remark on the subject. He regarded Jazz in bemusement. "Are you terribly upset?" he finally asked in a soft voice.

Jazz arched an optic ridge. "About what, Prowler?"

Prowl ducked his head shyly. "About me not remembering anything," he murmured, sounding embarrassed.

"Oh, Prowl," Jazz said sadly. "That's not your fault, love."

The Datsun just blinked at him, and then sat up to stretch the stiffness out of joints that, until yesterday, had been long unused. He gave the saboteur a wry look after he settled. "That doesn't make you any less upset about it," he pointed out mildly.

"I'm glad you're alive," Jazz said, a non sequitur that he could tell had not sidetracked Prowl at all.

"I know," the Datsun replied simply. He gave Jazz a considering look. "So," he said hesitantly, "are you going to tell me the specifics of my past? Seeing as how Sideswipe didn't get into much more detail than that we all crashed here and have been fighting Decepticons…" He paused, and then added softly, "Maybe if you tell me what I was like, what I did, who my friends were, then perhaps I'll find something that I remember."

"Yeah," Jazz whispered. "Yeah, I can do that, Prowler." He cycled air through his vents, the equivalent of a human taking a deep breath to steady himself, and continued, "You're a tactician—and you were Optimus Prime's Second in Command. I think that maybe Prime would have passed the Matrix of Leadership to you, if you hadn't been… lost." (Though privately he admitted that that probably would have been a mistake; he loved Prowl dearly, but he wasn't quite sure that his bondmate had it in him to be Prime. Besides, what the frag would they call him?) The saboteur gave a short, bitter laugh. "Primus knows that Ultra Magnus really wasn't prepared to receive it," he muttered. "And to be honest, I'm not certain that Hot Rod—Rodimus Prime—was ready for it either. Kid's always second-guessing himself, even though he ain't done too bad so far."

"I was Prime's Second?" Prowl asked, optics wide.

The Porsche smiled slightly. "Well, sure," he replied gently. "Didn't you hear Sides earlier?"

"I was a bit preoccupied," the Datsun muttered, shrugging defensively. "I was too busy being amazed that I'm still alive." He shuddered and looked away. "The only thing that I really remember is being shot and then reaching out for you—before that, and after that, there's nothing until we all woke up." He looked back up, optics burning fiercely. "I remember loving you, but not why."

Jazz's fuel pump stuttered at that, and for a moment all he could do was stare. Then, carefully, he gathered his bondmate up in his arms and held him tenderly, half surprised that Prowl didn't resist. "I love you," he whispered, "so very much… I wanted to die when I thought I lost ya, and couldn't because of everythin' that was happenin' with Unicron. And then, when everything was over, I thought that I was goin' crazy because I could still sense ya."

Prowl shuddered. "I just wish I could remember," he said, almost plaintively. He hid his face against his bondmate's neck, and Jazz tightened his embrace, holding him closer.

"Hey," Jazz said, gently nudging at Prowl until the other mech sat up enough to look at him. "I've got an idea," he announced, and the Datsun's optics brightened hopefully. "Maybe I can take ya around, see some stuff that should be familiar—it might jog your memory a bit. Feel up to it?"

"I think I can manage," Prowl replied hesitantly, and then, in a move that startled Jazz to his core, pressed a quick, nervous peck of a kiss to the Porsche's lips. Jazz could only stare at him, frozen for a short moment at the sensation, however brief, of something he never thought to feel again. "It seemed like the right thing to do," Prowl said, embarrassed again and refusing to lift his gaze from the sight of his own hand, which had somehow become entwined with Jazz's while neither of them were looking.

"It's alright," Jazz murmured. "Ya just… surprised me, is all." He shook himself a little, and then got to his feet, pulling Prowl with him. "Well, c'mon. The day ain't gettin' no younger, and I wanna take ya to see th' _Ark_, gutted though she is. We spent a lot more time there than we ever did here with Metroplex."

"Metroplex?" Prowl asked, letting the saboteur lead him wherever he would.

Jazz grinned. "Yeah," he chuckled. "Metroplex. Autobot City."

Prowl's optics widened. "You mean to tell me that the city—"

"—is actually a gargantuan mech? A good part of it is," Jazz laughed outright at the Datsun's expression. "Just don't piss him off, and you'll be fine. Ain't that right Met?" He directed the last to the room at large, and the lights blinked at them in return. "This area ain't actually part of him, but he's got sensors and controls throughout the City, so he knows what's goin' on and can defend it if he needs to."

"Can't he transform?" Prowl asked softly.

Jazz shook his head sadly. "His transformation cog was busted durin' the big fight," he replied. "Last I heard Percy was designin' him a new one."

"Oh." Prowl looked a little unsettled, but Jazz wasn't too worried; the saboteur knew that, given some time to wrap his mind around it, he'd be fine.

Introductions to Metroplex out of the way, Jazz led the resurrected tactician out into the corridor and they began to make their way to the nearest exit. The Porsche hoped that they might escape without seeing anyone—he really didn't feel up to dealing with anyone else's reaction to Prowl's return from death—but luck was not with him: Cliffjumper stood just outside the exterior door, looking uncharacteristically melancholy.

Jazz realized abruptly that he hadn't really seen much of the red minibot since their mutual escape from death at the hands of Unicron. He supposed that he'd been too wrapped up in his own grief to notice that of the people around him, and it hit him hard that he was not the only one who'd experienced loss. He glanced at Prowl, who was looking at him oddly, and felt a sudden stab of guilt; after all, Cliffjumper's closest friends were still dead.

"Jazz?" Prowl murmured questioningly and, at the unexpected sound, Cliffjumper whirled around to face them. When he realized who had spoken, the red Porsche's optics grew so round that Jazz thought they might fall out of his head, and he drew back a step in shock.

"P-prowl?" he asked, in a quavering voice, staring as though at an apparition.

"Yes?" Prowl inquired politely, a slight frown of confusion marring his smooth features.

A few wordless, choked noises escaped Cliffjumper's vocalizer before he managed to stammer, "H-how?"

The Datsun hesitated. "I—don't know," he confessed, a bit helplessly.

"I thought that Rodimus and company let everyone know yesterday," Jazz interjected softly.

The minibot twitched, his gaze jerking to the saboteur as though he had forgotten his presence. "Yeah," he said at length, apparently gathering his wits about him. "But I didn't believe them." He turned his optics back to Prowl. "I do now," he added in a whisper. He shuddered before scrubbing a hand over his face and looking to Jazz once again. "How did you find out?" he asked, sounding almost desperate for some reason.

Jazz's brow furrowed in concern. "Well," he began tentatively, "you know how much crazier than usual Sunstreaker's been actin'…" He trailed off, and when Cliffjumper nodded cautiously he continued. "Everyone thought he'd gone off the deep end; he kept insistin' that Ratchet was still alive. Not even Sideswipe believed him, the poor fragger—and then he decides to wrestle Siders to the ground and yank his chestplate open, all because of some dream he had. And what do you know, there's Ratchet's spark, nestled all snug-like up against Sideswipe's. So First Aid, who'd seen the whole thing, calls Swoop to drag me'n Blue down to medbay. Turns out, both of us had been havin' the same symptoms—a lingerin' awareness of our bondmates—only we just weren't as obvious about it as the Sunflower was. The rest, as they say, is history."

Cliffjumper nodded again, this time distractedly. "I've… gotta go," he said, obviously upset. He hurried past them into the corridor without another word, and they didn't try to stop him.

"I know him," Prowl said, though there was a questioning lilt to his voice that made Jazz think that the Datsun was looking for confirmation of something he suspected, rather than actually remembering anything.

"Yeah," Jazz replied. "His name's Cliffjumper. He was good friends with Windcharger and Brawn." Saying their names hurt more than he had thought it would, and Prowl, sensing his distress, touched his shoulder gently. "C'mon," the saboteur said abruptly in a rough voice, "let's get out of here."

Prowl nodded, and together they transformed and sped away from Autobot City.

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The _Ark_, as Jazz had promised, was a gutted ruin. Anything that someone thought might possibly be of use had been salvaged, and very little remained behind. Jazz just looked around silently; he had known, of course, that a team had been sent to practically dismantle her, but he'd never actually taken the time to come see for himself.

It was… disheartening.

There was little that was recognizable, even to the saboteur. Oh, the landscape was the same as always, and he'd felt a surprising bout of homesickness and nostalgia when they had first glimpsed the ship's rusting thrusters protruding from the mountain, but inside… inside nothing was spared.

Jazz sighed. "I'm beginnin' to think that this was a waste of time," he said uneasily as they wandered down corridors that had once been as familiar as the back of his own hand. They were dead and empty now, devoid of the life that had once echoed down them. He shivered, stopping to peer into the remains of what had once been Wheeljack's lab. For the first time, he felt himself smile; there were still tell-tale scorch marks on the walls.

"What is it?" Prowl asked, noticing his amusement and looking over his shoulder into the room. "I don't see anything but some old burn marks," he commented, sounding confused. Jazz laughed in spite of himself.

"For as many incredible things as Wheeljack made, there were just as many that blew up in his face," the Porsche replied, chuckling. "This was his workspace," he added, indicating the now-bare room.

Prowl blinked. "Oh," was all he said, and then he was off somewhere else, investigating everything in the hopes that _some_thing would spark a memory. He trailed his fingers along the walls and poked his head into every room that they passed. Jazz contented himself with watching him indulgently; the Datsun forcibly reminded him of a newly-activated sparkling, insatiably curious about everything around him.

And the more Jazz thought about it, the more that he came to realize that, in essence, that was what Prowl was now. The tactician remembered nothing save the last few frantic moments of his previous life; he was a blank slate—a sparkling.

"You're upset again," Prowl observed, leaving off his exploration in favor of finding out what was bothering Jazz.

"It's nothin'," Jazz said quietly. "Just thinkin'."

"Hmm."

"Ya don't believe me, do you?"

A shrug, accompanied by a level stare. "I won't lie to you," the Datsun said steadily.

Jazz smiled. "I know," he murmured. "C'mon—your old office is this way," he added, neatly sidestepping his bondmate's unspoken question. Prowl frowned, but let it go and followed the saboteur in silence.

There was nothing in the office to distinguish it from any other room when they reached it, and Jazz sighed in defeat when he saw the bare walls and floor. "Not even a bolt left," he muttered, dismayed.

"They were pretty thorough," Prowl remarked, looking around inquisitively.

"'Waste not, want not,'" Jazz quoted ruefully. "Though I guess it _would_ be a shame to let it all rot just for the sake of sentiment."

"It would make no sense to leave it if it can be put to good use elsewhere," the Datsun agreed, stopping to examine a discolored patch on the wall.

Jazz kicked half-heartedly at the door facing. "Doesn't leave us much to work with as far as gettin' your memory back, though," he said with a terrible disappointment in his voice.

"I suppose not," Prowl said apologetically.

"Would you stop actin' like any of this is your fault?" Jazz asked, irritated in spite of himself. "I mean, it's not like you just up and _planned_ to die and then come back without your memories."

"I suppose not," the tactician repeated in an even softer voice.

Jazz made a small noise of frustration. "Well, since this obviously isn't workin', how about we head back to the City? I know you've gotta be tired by now," he said firmly, and Prowl nodded thoughtfully.

"I could use some fuel," he admitted shyly, smiling so sweetly at Jazz that the saboteur's spark jumped in its casing, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"Alright," was all he said, and they left the ruined wreck that had been their home behind.

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They were hailed by Blaster as soon as they came within sensor range of Autobot City. :Hey, hey, there you are! We were just about to send a search party for ya!: he exclaimed, a hint of worry showing in his boisterous voice.

Jazz winced. :Sorry 'bout that: he commed back. :Guess I forgot to let someone know where we were goin'.: Actually, he had forgotten that anyone _cared_ where they were going, but Blaster was a close enough friend that he wasn't about to let him know that Jazz felt that way.

:We?: Blaster asked softly. :So it's true, then? He's alive?:

:He is: the saboteur confirmed.

For a moment, the normally glib-tongued communications officer seemed at a loss for words, before saying lamely, :Well, you take care, and congrats, okay? Blaster out: and the transmission was cut. Jazz snorted—apparently no one really knew how to deal with this business with the dead coming back to life.

Or how to talk to the ones most affected by it. He sighed to himself.

Once inside the city, Jazz decided to go ahead and brave what their human allies had dubbed the 'kitchen'—it was a communal area for mechs to get their energon and socialize—he figured that he might as well get it over with now rather than later.

Complete silence fell over the room when they stepped through the door, interrupted only by the soft sounds of the TV in one corner, and all optics—and eyes—turned to them. The bond between them vibrated with tension as they retrieved an energon cube apiece and made their way to a table in the corner, feeling their every move being watched as they did so. Jazz was not surprised when they were approached; what surprised him was _who_ approached them. Prowl regarded the bespectacled, wheelchair-bound human curiously.

"Ah, hey, Prowl—it's… good to see you out and about," Chip said hesitantly, seeming unsure of himself, but obviously unwilling to just stand back and say _nothing._ "How are you doing?"

"I am as well as can be expected, I suppose," Prowl replied politely. "And you?"

Chip inclined his head. "The same, I guess," he murmured. He let out a soft breath. He suddenly gave the tactician a wry smile. "It didn't really sink in—that you were alive, I mean—until I saw you just now. I'm… uh… a little overwhelmed, to be honest." His face abruptly fell. "You really don't remember me, do you?" he asked sorrowfully, gazing upward at the mech who had once been his friend. "We used to play chess, every now and then," he added, hopefully. Prowl just gave him a regretful look.

"I am sorry," the Datsun said sincerely. "I do wish I could remember. It will probably take some time before my memories return, I'm afraid."

Chip nodded in acceptance. "Well," he said determinedly, "if there's ever anything I can do for you to help you get them back, just let me know, alright?"

"I will certainly keep that in mind, Chip—thank you," Prowl said solemnly, not really taking note of the odd look that the human shared with Jazz.

Chip glanced at his wristwatch before saying quietly, "I better get going—I've got a meeting to get in a little while, and I don't want to be late. I guess I'll see you guys later—let me know if anything happens, will you, Jazz?"

"Sure thing," the saboteur replied, inexplicably chipper all of a sudden.

Prowl arched an optic ridge at his bondmate once the human had gone. "What is so amusing? Chip seems to be a very polite person—that _is_ what you said his name was, isn't it?" His expression became worried. "Please tell me I didn't call him the wrong name!" he fretted.

Jazz chuckled, sounding almost relieved. "No, it was the right name… but _I_ didn't tell it to you. You did that all on your own," he said, grinning broadly. "We might have a chance at this, after all."

Prowl's optics widened, and he stared after the retreating human with a considering look before turning back to Jazz. "That we might," he whispered, hope creeping back into his voice.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Wow, I'm fast with this one! XD

…Okay, so I already had it half-written when I posted the other one. -.-;

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and to VAWitch for beta-reading. Now, without further ado, Wheeljack and Bluestreak's chapter.

* * *

Wheeljack could not help but stare in bemusement at the smallish grey mech who was apparently his bondmate, for Bluestreak had not once paused in his nonstop chatter from the moment that the door to their quarters cycled closed behind them.

_Now I know why they call him Bluestreak,_ he thought wryly to himself, watching as the other mech paced nervously, doorwings flicking and fluttering as he talked on and on about nothing in particular. _He sure can talk…_ "Bluestreak," he interrupted gently, and the grey mech paused in his monologue long enough to turn and look at him.

"Yes, Wheeljack?" he asked hesitantly—the shortest sentence he'd spoken since they'd entered the room.

"Are you always this… chatty?"

Bluestreak blinked, and then frowned. "I didn't mean to bother you," he said unhappily. "I know I tend to talk a lot when I'm nervous or upset and everyone tells me that I'm terrible for going on about nothing or going off on a tangent until I've forgotten what it is that I was talking about in the first place, but I guess I forgot that you wouldn't be used to that anymore, because you always used to just listen to me to make me feel better, and I guess I need to get used to things being different—" He shuddered and made an obvious effort to keep himself from rambling. "If you don't want me to talk, I can be quiet," he added miserably.

Wheeljack immediately felt guilty for upsetting the other mech. Bluestreak looked about as frazzled as a turbofox caught out on the grounds of the Towers during a hunt. "It doesn't bother me all that much," he reassured the grey mech. "I was just… curious."

"Really?" Bluestreak asked hopefully, perking up a little before his shoulders slumped once again. "I just don't know what to do," he admitted quietly, speaking of the situation they found themselves in for the first time since they left the medbay. "I thought that I lost you for good, y'know? And since Unicron and Galvatron were defeated, it looks like the war is over, so I didn't even have _that_ to keep me occupied anymore… not that I really wanted to fight in the war in the first place, but at least it kept me from thinking about—" He cut himself off with a deep breath. "And I'm babbling again," he admitted ruefully, giving Wheeljack a sheepish look.

The engineer sighed. "It's ok," he said mildly. "I would like to know a few things, though; like how did we meet? And how did we end up… together… after that?" He couldn't help but wonder what in the world had possessed him to bind himself to such an obviously needy person—he could sense, through the bond, that the grey mech was just barely holding it together. He hoped to Primus that he had not done it out of pity; he didn't think that he could stand it if he had.

"It wasn't for pity," Bluestreak snapped, and Wheeljack started guiltily. He hadn't realized that his thoughts were so open. The gunner shuttered his optics and drew in a deep, steadying draught of air in through his intakes. "Look," he said steadily, "this is hard on all of us, but… well… maybe it'll help if I tell you how we met. We weren't actually introduced to each other until right before the _Ark_ left Cybertron—and then it was just a passing thing. It wasn't until after we all woke from stasis that we actually got to know one another." When he unshuttered his optics, they burned fiercely into Wheeljack's own. "But we _were_ in love, and that's why you bonded with me," he added in a softly intense voice. The engineer found that he could no longer meet Bluestreak's gaze.

He jumped when he felt the gunner's arms suddenly wind around him, and couldn't help but shiver a little at how _right_ it felt. Hesitantly, he wrapped his own arms around the grey mech, feeling the other's relief and joy through the bond—a simple joy that Wheeljack was _alive_, and it was so _amazing_—

"_Primus_, Bluestreak, I _want_ to remember what happened—I never thought that I'd find someone—"

"Shh," Bluestreak murmured soothingly. He pulled back far enough to look into Wheeljack's optics and reached up to cup the inventor's face in his hands. "I could still kill Silverspire for what he did to you, and I don't even know the mech. I can tell that we're right back to square one as far as that goes," he said quietly. Wheeljack shuddered; if he had still needed confirmation that this mech was who he said he was, then that was it. "No one deserves to be treated like that," Bluestreak added. He regarded the engineer as though considering something. "Will you let me take off your mask?" he asked softly, fingering the catches of the faceplate gently.

"I—I'm not sure…" Wheeljack replied unsteadily, still reeling from the knowledge that Bluestreak knew about Silverspire. And if he knew about Silverspire, then he knew about the scars—

:They're not that bad, love: Bluestreak whispered directly into his mind, and Wheeljack started again. :Besides, I'd have to be pretty shallow to let a little thing like scars keep me from loving you. Come on, 'Jack—I've never made fun of you yet, and I don't plan to start now.:

:You're asking a lot of me: Wheeljack replied, unconsciously using the bond, as Bluestreak had. :I don't remember knowing you…the last thing I remember is graduating from the Academy—:

:But you _do_ know me: Bluestreak interrupted. :And you graduated a long time ago, Wheeljack. We spent _four million years_ in stasis, love, and that doesn't count the time we've spent on Earth. Cybertron was no longer the same when we managed to take her back; Pit, she wasn't the same as you remember when we left in the first place. She's a shambling ruin now, 'Jack. The Towers are gone. The Academy is nothing but a burnt-out husk. Everything has changed, and nothing you remember is there anymore. _Earth_ is our home now—I have fonder memories of this place than I ever did of home.: He smiled. "I told you I tend to ramble off-topic," he said out loud in a rueful voice.

"I believe you now," Wheeljack replied weakly. "So, everything is gone? Even the Academy?"

"Pretty much everything," the grey mech whispered. "Iacon is not safe. Hoist and Grapple were appalled." He allowed a little amusement at the two 'Bots' melodramatic reactions to the destruction to show in his face for a moment or two. "Reconstruction is coming along, but slowly," he added somberly.

"It doesn't seem to bother you all that badly," the engineer remarked softly.

Bluestreak shook his head. "I don't remember a time when there was peace," he said mildly. "I _was_ lucky enough to live in one of the few untouched cities on the planet; they left us alone for a long time because we were neutral. And then the Decepticons razed it to the ground when I was just a youngling. The war itself had broken out in full force before I was sparked, though."

Wheeljack blinked at him in surprise. "Then that means that you're—"

"A lot younger than you, yes," the gunner interjected, sounding both amused and apprehensive. "I'm not a youngling anymore," he continued defensively, frowning as he sensed Wheeljack's concern.

"I believe you," Wheeljack replied quietly, pressing his forehead to Bluestreak's and looking into the other's optics. They both jumped, startled, when the door chimed, announcing a visitor.

Bluestreak gave a soft, irritated sigh as he went to open it. "It's probably Sideswipe with the energon," he muttered, and sure enough, the red twin stood at the door, pulling two cubes of energon out of subspace. He held them out to the gunner, who took them with quiet thanks.

"You two alright?" he asked with obviously forced cheer. They weren't fooled; they could see the worry in his optics.

"We're fine," Bluestreak replied, also trying to sound normal and failing miserably.

Suddenly Sideswipe grimaced. "I better go," he murmured, optics flicking back and forth between the two of them. "Sunny's half off the edge of losing it—probably shouldn't have left him alone with Ratchet—"

"Yeah," Bluestreak agreed. "He was in pretty bad shape, wasn't he?" he asked, sounding concerned. "I mean, he wouldn't even come out of your room—"

Sideswipe nodded, starting to look antsy. "I'll talk to you later, Blue, okay?"

"Okay." They let the door slide closed behind the retreating red mech, and Bluestreak handed an energon cube to Wheeljack. "Here," he said softly.

"Thanks," the Lancia murmured, taking it without meeting the younger mech's optics. He looked up as something occurred to him. "They—they won't—"

"Ratchet is perfectly safe with them," Bluestreak interrupted, sensing what his bondmate's concern was. "Trust me—the twins would be last ones to ever do anything to hurt him." He watched Wheeljack shrewdly for a few moments as the engineer stared pensively at his energon cube. "Y'know, 'Jack, it would be easier if you just take your mask off to drink it," he said mildly, and Wheeljack shot him a startled look.

"Hmph," he grumbled. "You'll not leave me alone until I take it off, will you?" he asked wryly.

"Probably not," Bluestreak replied, smiling.

Wheeljack huffed air through his vents. "Alright, alright, fine," he muttered, setting his cube down to fumble at the catches of his faceplate. "I suppose you've already seen 'em, anyway…"

"Here, let me," the Datsun said softly, stilling his bondmate's hands with his own and gently undoing the clasps after watching the older mech swear with frustration for a moment.

Wheeljack averted his face once the mask was removed, nervous with his scars exposed, even in the presence of the mech he was bonded to. He twitched when grey fingers touched his cheek and pulled him back around to look at Bluestreak.

"Like I said, they're really not bad at all," the gunner said earnestly, absently tracing some of the heavier marks. Wheeljack just snorted in disbelief. "No, really!" Bluestreak insisted. "You told me yourself just a few months ago that they looked like they were fading." The gunner regarded him thoughtfully for a moment; Wheeljack sensed his bondmate's intent perhaps half a second before he impulsively pressed their lips together in a gentle, undemanding kiss.

Wheeljack stiffened in shock, but the hand on the back of his helm and the warm presence in his mind and spark kept him from pulling away. Slowly, by small increments, he found himself relaxing into the kiss, responding in spite of himself, and his spark thrilled unbidden at the feel of Bluestreak's joy.

"I love you," the gunner said huskily when he finally pulled back, and Wheeljack hummed softly in acknowledgement.

The Lancia finally managed to gather his wits together enough to breathe, "There's got to be some way to get our memories back. Not being able to remember something this—this—incredible—"

"Shh," Bluestreak whispered. "I know." Cycling his cooling system shakily, he drew away, retrieved Wheeljack's forgotten energon cube, and handed it to the inventor. "Here," he said, still a little unsteady, "you should drink this, and get some rest like First Aid suggested."

"A-alright," Wheeljack said uncertainly, and suddenly realized that he was more fuel-deprived than he'd thought, for he found himself draining the cube very quickly. Bluestreak offered his own cube once he'd done with his, and he was too hungry to turn it down. The gunner merely smiled at him indulgently and put the empty cubes away after he finished, though he had to have felt Wheeljack's acute embarrassment over his own greediness.

He didn't protest when the gunner led him to the room's single berth and pulled him down onto it, letting the younger mech curl into him once they had settled. He felt Bluestreak suddenly shiver a bit, and then he realized that he'd been absently stroking the gunner's doorwings. Little tendrils of pleasure threaded through their bond, and Wheeljack's engine turned over with an abrupt lurch. Bluestreak sat up and stared at him in surprise.

"'Jack?" he asked hesitantly, placing a careful hand on the engineer's chest, right over the Autobot symbol emblazoned there. His expression became determined, and hope wove its way through the desire in their link. "I have an idea," he said softly, his other hand coming up to feather caresses across Wheeljack's own stubby wings. The Lancia gasped in response.

"W-what kind of idea?" he asked, trying hard not to arch into the touch.

Bluestreak leaned down and kissed him again, briefly. "I could share my memories with you," he breathed into his bonded's mouth, and Wheeljack shuddered.

"You could," the engineer managed, hands drifting back to the gunner's doorwings almost of their own volition. The breathy moan that issued from Bluestreak's vocalizer broke the last of his restraint, and he pulled the other mech on top of him and delved his fingers into the sensitive hinges.

Bluestreak feverishly mapped out all of his sensitive areas with gentle hands and mouth; it was obvious that he knew exactly how to coax a response from his lover. Wheeljack felt bumbling and clumsy in comparison, though the Datsun offered no complaint, showing every evidence of enjoying his touch.

:Never thought I'd have this again: the gunner said desperately into his mind, claiming his lips in another fiery kiss. :Oh Primus, thought I'd lost you!: and with that Bluestreak plugged into him and their systems fell into sync. Barriers fell away, and the gunner's memories unfurled before him, filling in the gaps of what he had lost.

Wheeljack cried out, clutching Blue tightly to his chest, and Bluestreak buried his face in the crook of the engineer's neck with a strangled moan. Their engines revved in tandem, heating the room and causing their cooling fans to whirr to life.

Snippets of his life from Bluestreak's perspective paraded through his processor, from the moment that they met until the moment of his death, and Wheeljack keened along with the gunner at the memory of the bond being ripped asunder. Nearly all thought of desire left them at that last; they wrapped themselves up in each other, each seeking comfort in the other instinctively.

Neither of them was sure how long they stayed like that, simply basking in one another's presence, nor were they certain which of them made the first move to resume their lovemaking; they just suddenly had their hands buried deep in sensitive wiring and circuitry, and their engines were screaming loudly enough that it was a wonder they couldn't be heard out in the hall.

Bluestreak's fingers, tangled in a cluster of wires as close to the engineer's spark chamber as he could wiggle them in, tightened convulsively when Wheeljack nipped his neck cables hard enough to be just this side of painful, and the Lancia, already close to the edge, overloaded with a shout. His release cascaded into Bluestreak and pushed him into his own overload, and the Datsun shuddered and moaned.

For a long time the lay still, exhausted and content.

"It didn't work, did it?" Bluestreak asked weakly, a brief flicker of disappointment coloring his tone that was quickly overwhelmed by the warmth that still flooded his systems from the overload. "You don't really remember anything."

"…I'm sorry, Blue," Wheeljack whispered, shuttering his optics.

"Don't be," the gunner replied, disconnecting their systems and rolling off to cuddle into the engineer's side. "It's not something you can help. Besides," he added, and Wheeljack couldn't suppress a smile at the mischief that floated through their bond, "it wasn't exactly an unpleasant experience."

Wheeljack chuckled wearily. "No, can't say as it was," he murmured, wrapping his arms around the younger mech and pulling him close. "It was worth a try, in any case." His mind whirled with half-formed ideas of how they could solve the memory problem.

"Mm-hmm," Bluestreak replied absently, already half in recharge. Wheeljack just smiled and initiated his own recharge sequence, letting it take him under.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This one fought me tooth and nail, and went in a direction that I totally did not expect it to go. It was surprisingly fun to write, despite the writer's block that plagued me intermittently throughout, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did.

Thanks, once again, go to my lovely beta, VAWitch, for her wonderfully helpful suggestions, and to all the folks who reviewed—it really means a lot to me.

And now, on to the Ratchet/Twins goodness. XD

* * *

"You interfaced with him, didn't you?" Ratchet demanded, staring at Wheeljack with wide optics. "You did!" They were alone in the quarters that the medic shared with the twins; Ratchet had insisted on being able to visit with his friend without someone hovering over his shoulder all the time.

"He's my bondmate! What does it matter?" Wheeljack asked defensively, crossing his arms over his chestplate. "It was more an attempt to regain my memories than anything else! Besides, he's very sweet."

Ratchet snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure," he said sarcastically.

"Like you weren't tempted by those twins!" the engineer retorted, glaring.

"I wasn't," Ratchet said succinctly.

Wheeljack made a derisive sound. "Then you need to have your CPU examined, because that yellow one is possibly the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, and his brother ain't far behind him—and you're fragging _bonded_ to them. Don't tell me you weren't tempted."

"Don't you make this about me," Ratchet said warningly, glowering at his friend. "_I_ wasn't the one that gave in to temptation." He cocked his head to the side for a moment, and then growled, "And you do realize that they're _listening in_—and Sunstreaker is now preening insufferably, thanks to you—"

Wheeljack snickered, halting Ratchet's tirade in its tracks. "They hover over you like a couple of overprotective old nanny-bots, don't they?" he chortled, and the medic gave him an annoyed look.

"Yeah," Ratchet grumbled finally, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily. "It's downright unnerving, ya know? A mech like me usually ain't the type that mechs like them go for. And then there's the fact that they're slagging _twins_. I've never heard of a set of twins even _wanting_ to bond to someone, let alone being able to do it."

"You could do worse than having those two watching over you," the engineer pointed out quietly. "And look at the bright side—it's now been proven that they _can_—what are the mechanics of that, anyway? Have you learned anything about it yet?" Wheeljack's vocal indicators flashed curiously.

Ratchet arched an optic ridge. "You just can't resist trying to figure it out, can you?" he asked wryly, smiling despite himself at how easily his friend let himself be sidetracked by anything new. "From what I've gleaned from them, they had to agree on whom they wanted to bond with—they share a spark, after all."

Wheeljack nodded slowly. "That makes sense…" he replied thoughtfully.

The medic cycled his vents in frustration and sat down heavily on the berth. "I just don't know what to do, 'Jack," he said helplessly, looking up at his friend. "One minute I'm laying down to recover from a high-grade binge, and the next I'm waking up and being told that I died and lost thousands of vorns' worth of memories—and that I'm an Autobot! And that's not even taking the twins into consideration."

"I know," Wheeljack replied softly. "We're both in the same situation—at least we know that there's no way they could be lying to us. It would just about be impossible with the bonds." He walked over and gripped Ratchet's shoulder comfortingly, and the medic reached up to lay his hand over his friend's. "And at least we still have each other," he added softly. "I feel bad for poor Prowl—he didn't seem to remember much of anything."

Ratchet nodded reluctantly at this reminder that it could be worse. "I guess you're right," he admitted ruefully. "I just… keep thinking that maybe this is all just a dream—it's so surreal—"

"Last night was real enough," Wheeljack interrupted smugly, and yelped when Ratchet smacked him.

"Don't rub it in," the medic growled dangerously, though there was a playful edge to his voice that made Wheeljack laugh softly.

"You know, I'm sure all you'd have to do is ask," he said sweetly. Ratchet just favored him with a warning look, but he went on anyway. "Judging by the way that that yellow one was looking at you, he wouldn't require much encouragement." He chortled and dodged out of the way when the medic took another swipe at him.

Ratchet was just about to pounce on his irreverent friend and thoroughly teach him a lesson when the door opened to admit the twins and Bluestreak.

Sideswipe arched an optic ridge at the display, but merely said, "First Aid said he wants to take another look at you guys—he sent us to fetch you. Oh, and he says that both combiner teams and the Dinobots want to talk to you since they didn't get the chance yesterday, so be prepared for chaos."

"Understatement," Sunstreaker snorted. Bluestreak just smiled shyly at Wheeljack; the engineer's vocal indicators flashed in his version of a grin.

"Shouldn't keep the mech waiting, then!" Wheeljack said cheerfully, and the five of them made their way to the medbay.

Sunstreaker was right—chaos was an understatement.

There were so many mechs waiting for them in the medbay that Ratchet didn't think he could ever keep them all straight. Somehow, First Aid and Swoop managed to keep them in line until they finished examining them, but the moment the pair put away their equipment, Ratchet and Wheeljack were mobbed. There was a babble of voices, all trying to talk over one another at once; the two friends barely resisted the urge to cover their audio receptors.

Suddenly the biggest of them—Grimlock, Ratchet remembered from the day before—bellowed, "Me Grimlock say you be quiet!"

There was instant silence.

Grimlock glared around at each mech in turn, making certain that the unspoken threat came through loud and clear, and everyone shrank away from him. He turned to his creators. "That better?" he asked solicitously, and they just nodded, staring at him with wide optics. "Him Kup say, you Ratchet and Wheeljack not remember us," he continued, cocking his head quizzically. "Me Grimlock think, you Ratchet and Wheeljack need to be re-in-tro-duced to us Dinobots and them Protectobots and Aerialbots. Me Grimlock say, everyone take turn, one at a time."

"What gave you the right to order us around?" one of the jets asked belligerently, though he was quick enough to backpedal when the big Dinobot turned the full force of his gaze on him.

Grimlock snorted. "Me Grimlock outrank you. Me Grimlock say, that give me plenty right to boss you Slingshot," he snapped, and Slingshot subsided sulkily.

"He's got a point," one of the other jets commented, and Slingshot glared.

"Thanks so much for the support, Bolt," he replied nastily, and Bolt favored him with a reproving stare.

Grimlock ignored them both. "Me Grimlock go first," he declared. Once he'd broken the ice, it took a surprisingly short time to get them all sorted out, and then, seemingly satisfied, the three commanders—Grimlock, Hot Spot, and Silverbolt—herded their respective teams out to give the two a chance to recover. They left behind only First Aid and Swoop.

Wheeljack sank down onto a repair berth with a groan. "Primus," he muttered. "I don't think I've been hugged so much in my life!"

"Sorry about that," First Aid said apologetically. "They insisted on being here."

"Him Grimlock still mad at me Swoop," Swoop said sullenly, staring at the door that his brothers had gone through. First Aid patted his arm comfortingly, and the big mech directed a warm smile at the young CMO.

"Why would Grimlock be mad at you?" Ratchet asked, hopping up to sit beside Wheeljack.

Swoop snorted. "Because me Swoop didn't tell him Grimlock what happened 'til yesterday. Him Grimlock big baby, not like to be left in dark," he said in an uncharitable voice. Ratchet guessed from Swoop's tone that being called a 'baby' was not exactly a compliment.

"He'll come around, Swoop," First Aid said soothingly, and suddenly Ratchet wondered if perhaps there was something going on between them. He dismissed the thought immediately—they certainly didn't seem very compatible.

"Him Grimlock can sulk if him Grimlock want to, me Swoop not care," the Dinobot declared, affecting an air of unconcern.

"Surely he can't sulk forever," Wheeljack said kindly. Swoop arched an optic ridge at him.

"You Wheeljack _definitely_ don't remember him Grimlock, if you Wheeljack think that. Him Grimlock _very_ good at holding grudge," the pterosaur grumbled.

"I have to admit that he's right," First Aid added ruefully, and Wheeljack blinked at him in surprise.

"That stubborn, huh?" he asked, sounding almost amused.

Sideswipe laughed. "Grimlock is the most stubborn one of the whole stubborn lot," he said, grinning despite Swoop's sudden scowl.

"Me Swoop not stubborn," he protested, his expression mulish.

"He's got you there, Swoop," First Aid teased gently, and the big mech gave the medic a put upon look.

"So, Doc, find anything while you were pokin' around in our chassis?" Wheeljack asked cheerfully, looking thoroughly entertained by the exchange.

First Aid winced at the nickname and shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid not," he said. "There's nothing out of place, but there's also no evidence that your memory banks are beginning to repair themselves—"

"I wouldn't really expect for self-repair to have any kind of effect on this type and severity of damage this quickly, anyway," Ratchet interrupted thoughtfully, and First Aid nodded cautiously.

"Yes, of course—as I was going to say, it's only been a day, so I'll take another look in perhaps another week. In the meantime, maybe the same things that help human amnesiacs might work here, so surround yourselves with familiar things. Something might spark a memory," the CMO said, allowing a bare hint of irritation at being interrupted color his tone. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchanged an amused look.

"Oooh, First Aid's getting snippy with Ratchet!" the red twin gasped dramatically, splaying his fingers across his chest in a theatrical gesture.

"The world's coming to an end, Sides!" Sunstreaker exclaimed, playing along with his brother.

"The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" Sideswipe laughed, and First Aid glowered at both of them.

"And you two are insensitive jackasses," the young medic said flatly, sending the pair into paroxysms of laughter.

"Why thank you, 'Aid," Sideswipe with mock gratitude. "That's the nicest thing you've said to us all week!"

First Aid gave a long-suffering sigh. "Just get out of here, would you?" he asked, annoyed.

"Are you two always this difficult, or do you reserve that kind of behavior for him?" Ratchet asked dryly once they cleared the medbay doors.

"They're pretty annoying all the time," Bluestreak interjected, and Wheeljack snickered.

Sideswipe dealt the gunner a light cuff. "You little rat, you're supposed to defend us!" he complained good-naturedly. "And after all we've done for you, too…"

Bluestreak snorted. "Oh, yes, and I'm supposed to be grateful for all of the times you've gotten me in trouble," he said mildly, optics glinting in amusement.

"Not my fault you can't lie with a straight face," Sideswipe ribbed back cheerfully. "Besides, _someone_ had to be the scapegoat."

The twins laughed while Bluestreak sputtered in outrage. "Oh, ha ha, yes, let's all have a good laugh at Bluestreak's expense," the grey mech muttered. He turned to Ratchet. "Oh, and just for the record, it used to be _you_ that they reserved that kind of behavior for. Only I think they lived in mortal terror of your throwing arm."

Ratchet looked at them in surprise. "_You_ were afraid of _me_?"

Sideswipe sniffed disdainfully. "Ratchet, _Prime_ was afraid of you. You think a couple of lowly grunts like us were gonna be any different? _Everyone_ knew better than to tangle with the Hatchet in a temper. You were the CMO from the Pit—and we all loved you for it." Bluestreak was nodding agreement enthusiastically.

The grey mech opened his mouth to speak as the medic goggled in amazement over the thought of having _Prime_ cowed, but he was interrupted when two small organic beings came around the corner and saw them. Ratchet and Wheeljack stared at them in bemusement, while their escorts watched the pair warily.

The bigger one—_Sparkplug_, Sideswipe whispered into his mind, _a human_—made a soft, strangled noise, and both of them began leaking fluid from around their optics. _Eyes,_ Sideswipe corrected him again, and the medic spared him a brief, annoyed look.

"I didn't believe it, when Spike said they'd told him you two were alive," Sparkplug said quietly.

"We've… had several people tell us that," Wheeljack replied slowly, kneeling down to put himself more on the humans' level. "We were friends, weren't we? At least, that's what Bluestreak tells me," he added, peering into the small faces.

"Yeah," Sparkplug answered. "We were friends. We were the first humans to really meet you guys." He swiped at his eyes almost angrily. "And you know what they did? Some snot-nosed young punk that couldn't tell his exhaust from his intakes stopped by one day and told us what happened. The gist of the conversation was pretty much, 'Oh yeah, and by the way, I'm here to let you know that two of your closest friends were deactivated in the line of duty' and then he just left. They couldn't have cared less."

"I'm sorry," Ratchet said quietly.

"Not your fault," Sparkplug said, expression grim. "Hell, it wasn't really anyone's fault, to be honest," he added. "All the ones that it mattered to—the original crew—were too busy with their own grief to worry about a couple of humans." He gave them a wry smile.

"Bumblebee was really upset that they had told you before we got back to Earth. He wanted to be the one to let you know," Spike said apologetically. "He figured the news would come easier from a friend—but they took it out of our hands."

"Well, we're here now," Wheeljack said, forcing cheer into his voice. "Maybe we can spend some time together—we've been told to 'surround ourselves with familiar things' after all. Friends would certainly count!"

"So what they told us about your memories is true, then?" Sparkplug asked, sounding disheartened.

Ratchet nodded. "If what they told you is that most of them are corrupted, then yes," he said softly. "And I doubt that they'll come back quickly, if at all." He shrugged self-consciously.

"God, I couldn't imagine dealing with something like that," Spike breathed, horrified. "Wait, you said 'most'? So you actually do remember some things—"

"Nothing past my internship," Ratchet interrupted. "Wheeljack remembers even less. Not enough to get anyone's hopes up. It's… well, the damage is extensive."

"I'm glad to see that you seem to be taking it so well. I'd be a total nutjob, I think," Sparkplug chuckled softly through his tears.

Wheeljack hesitated before speaking. "It…helps…that we've got bondmates that care about us," he said quietly. "It's hard to disbelieve what your bonded tells you, and Bluestreak has been very understanding, considering the circumstances." The grey mech put a hand on his bondmate's shoulder; if he'd been human, they would have thought him on the verge of tears himself. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe very carefully did not look at Ratchet, and the medic made sure to keep his gaze fixed on the floor.

Neither human missed the nuances of the three's behavior. With a considering look, Sparkplug remarked gently, "Well, as good as it is to see you two, we probably shouldn't monopolize your time like this. I have no doubt you've still got a long road ahead of you, and others who need to spend time with you too. Maybe we can get together later, catch up on old times? I'm sure there are a few stories we can tell you, see if they help you remember anything…"

"Of course!" Wheeljack said enthusiastically. "We'll set up a meeting soon; it'll be fun, won't it Blue?"

"Sure, 'Jack," Bluestreak murmured, looking pleased to see his bondmate so excited—so much like his old self. "It's been good seeing you again, Spike, Sparkplug," he added, nodding to the two humans.

The pair nodded in return and, once they had made their goodbyes to Ratchet and the twins, they left the way that they came.

"I would never have imagined," Ratchet began, once they had started back on their way to their quarters, "that I would have made friends with organics. Pit, I would never have imagined that there were any organics sentient enough to make friends with!"

Sunstreaker snorted. "Actually, Spike is more Bumblebee's friend. You two hung out more with Sparkplug."

"Either way, the point is still valid," Ratchet pointed out dryly. Sunstreaker just shrugged noncommittally.

"So, uh, who wants to play some video games?" Sideswipe asked brightly into the awkward silence that fell. They had just reached their quarters; the red mech looked at them so hopefully that they couldn't turn him down.

"Sure," Ratchet murmured, "why not?"

* * *

Ratchet came out of his recharge cycle with the sensation of being watched intently. He unshuttered his optics to see Sunstreaker staring at him from so close that he could feel the warm air from the other mech's vents ghosting over his face. He shifted uneasily, not quite comfortable with the yellow mech's undivided attention. There was something indefinable about Sunstreaker that put him on edge; the flicker of the warrior's optics said that he knew it, too.

Sunstreaker scowled. "It's not like I'm gonna hurt you," he said, and Ratchet thought that he detected a hint of injured feelings in the warrior's irritated tone. "I've never purposely hurt you before."

"I'm sorry," Ratchet replied softly. Guilt at his nervousness with a mech that he should have trusted with his life kept him from meeting Sunstreaker's gaze. The yellow twin huffed in frustration and rolled over onto his back.

"Whatsamatter, Sunny?" Sideswipe asked sleepily from Ratchet's other side, scooting a little closer to the medic and draping a lazy red and white arm across his midsection. It seemed to be a gesture of long habit, something that Sideswipe really didn't stop to think about; Ratchet didn't protest, though he would have liked to.

"Nothing," Sunstreaker snapped back peevishly, and paused for a moment before adding, almost half-heartedly, "And don't call me that."

Ratchet's spark twisted at the roiling anger laced with need that Sunstreaker did nothing to conceal. He couldn't help but feel as though it were his fault, even though, logically, there was really nothing he could have done about any of it.

Sideswipe groaned. "Oh, just seduce him and get it over with," he grumbled at Sunstreaker, obviously sensing what was bothering his brother as easily as Ratchet did. Advice dispensed, he rolled away from the both of them and fell back into recharge.

Ratchet and Sunstreaker stared at one another in surprise, and the medic fidgeted.

"Well, this is awkward," he muttered, dropping his gaze. He jumped when a yellow hand reached out to trace gently across his cheek. He looked back up to see Sunstreaker with an unreadable expression on his face, and frowned. "You're not seriously going to—mpfh—"

He was cut off unceremoniously when the yellow mech abruptly leaned forward to kiss him hard.

"Sunstreaker!" he managed in between kisses, and was embarrassed at how squeaky his voice came out. "Sunny, wait—"

Sunstreaker drew back enough to look at him with fierce optics. "_I need you,_" he growled in a low voice, and Ratchet couldn't help but gasp. It had been longer than he cared to remember since a lover had spoken to him like that, had wanted him so badly.

"Ratchet, please," the yellow mech added, almost desperately.

The medic regarded him for a moment with wide optics, and then nodded hesitantly. "A-alright," he whispered, and suddenly Sunstreaker was on top of him and plugged into him and _Oh Primus!_

It was everything he'd thought it would be—wild and all-consuming and better than anything he'd ever felt in his _life_—and in the periphery of his processors, there was a vague awareness that Sideswipe was watching them with an unreadable expression. He moaned despite himself, and just held on to the yellow mech for dear life, completely incapable of reciprocating his caresses. Sunstreaker, for his part, seemed unbothered at having to do all the work; Ratchet could sense his joy in the medic's capitulation through their link easily enough.

Finally Ratchet regained his wits enough to send an energy surge through the interface cable that connected them—and, amazingly enough, Sunstreaker was wound up so far, that was all it took to push him into overload. He stiffened and cried out, shunting the excess back into Ratchet; the medic shrieked as it triggered his own release. His fingers clawed down his lover's back, leaving red streaks behind, and he got a faint sense of amusement from Sideswipe at the ruining of his brother's paint.

When he finally came down from the sensory high enough to be cognizant of what was going on around him, Sunstreaker was feathering little kisses across his face. Sideswipe was still watching them, though the look in his optics had become sharp and hungry.

"Love you," Sunstreaker was whispering feverishly, over and over. "Love you!"

"Shh, Sunny, it's alright, I'm here," he whispered back, holding the yellow mech tightly. He could feel the circuit-wrenching terror that Sunstreaker had buried deep threatening to overwhelm the other mech; he knew instinctively that it was not a feeling that was all that familiar to either twin.

Losing Ratchet had scared them both nearly to death.

So, he soothed Sunstreaker as much as the proud mech would allow himself to be soothed before he finally pulled away, looking a little embarrassed at his emotional display as he disconnected his interface cable. He seemed surprised when Ratchet cuddled up next to him, pillowing his head on the yellow shoulder, but he gladly wrapped the white mech up in his arms and sighed softly in content.

"Feel better?" Sideswipe asked softly, reaching out to hesitantly brush his fingertips across the medic's arm.

Ratchet blinked at him, startled—and then actually thought about it for a moment. "Yeah," he said quietly, meeting the red mech's level gaze with one of his own—and was surprised to realize that it was true. He felt…complete. It was an incredible feeling, and he paused long enough to bask in it. Sunstreaker gave him a small smile, their minds still close enough after interfacing that he easily picked up on what the medic was thinking.

"Thank you," the yellow mech said in a low voice, arms tightening almost imperceptibly around Ratchet.

Ratchet shuttered his optics. "Sunstreaker…" he began, a strange tightness in his throat making his vocalizer scratchy, "Sunny, you don't have to thank me—you two are my bondmates—I'm sorry I've been such an aft to you both. I don't know why I've been so afraid—"

Sideswipe silenced him by placing his fingers across the medic's lips. "Shh. We know why you were afraid. We don't blame you," he said gently. He leaned forward and gave Ratchet a kiss of his own. "We love you," he breathed after pulling away.

"I want to remember…" Ratchet said, voice trembling despite everything he could do to steady it. "I wish I could…"

Sideswipe kissed him again. "Your memories will come back," he said firmly. "And if they don't—we'll just have to make new ones."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Well, this one has taken quite a while to get finished; hopefully it's got a little bit of a surprise for you all. Beta'd by VAWitch, whom I can never thank enough. And all the lovely folks who take the time to review, or heck, even if you're just following along silently, thanks so much.

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"Hey—Sideswipe…could I—talk to you? For just a minute?"

Sideswipe nearly tripped and fell in astonishment when he turned to face the owner of the anxious voice that had addressed him. Cliffjumper was very clearly overwrought, wringing his hands together nervously.

"Well, sure, Cliffjumper," he heard himself saying, gesturing for the minibot to follow him a little distance away from where Ratchet, Wheeljack, Bluestreak and Spike sat, listening with rapt attention to some story that Sparkplug was telling. They were hoping that the elderly human would find something that the two resurrected mechs would find familiar; after over a week, there was still no sign of progress. Sideswipe had had to remind himself that things like this couldn't be hurried.

Sunstreaker stood possessively right behind Ratchet, one hand resting protectively on the medic's shoulder. The yellow mech noted the unusual exchange and sent a wordless question to his twin, but Sideswipe just shook his head and Sunstreaker subsided without fuss.

Just as the red Lamborghini opened his mouth to ask what this was about, Cliffjumper began speaking in a rush. "I know we're not friends," he said quickly, looking anywhere but at Sideswipe, "but I don't think I can stand to ask Jazz or Bluestreak—and your brother is more likely to turn me into scrap than talk to me—"

Sideswipe sighed. "Is there a point to this, Cliffjumper?" he asked impatiently. His optics grew wide and his expression softened a bit when the minibot flinched. It was so unlike Cliffjumper's usual brash attitude that it made him notice other things—things that had escaped him before. Like how the once-vibrant red finish was now dull and chipped, and how there was an almost imperceptible shake in the formerly steady hands.

"I should have known you'd brush me off too," the red Porsche said in a trembling, angry voice. "You're all the same—" He began to stomp off, but Sideswipe grabbed his arm, becoming concerned in spite of himself.

"Wait, wait—look, are you alright? Primus, what's happened to you? I've never known you to let yourself go like this—"

"What do you care?" Cliffjumper snarled, trying to twist free of the bigger mech's grip and unable to do so. "You've got your bondmate back, and everything's just hunky-dory for you now—"

Sideswipe let go of him in shock as he realized what Cliffjumper had meant to ask him about. The minibot stumbled back and glared at him, rubbing his arm, but at least he didn't leave.

It took him several tries to find his vocalizer again. "Who was it?" he asked quietly, and with no small amount of sympathy.

Cliffjumper sneered. "Why am I surprised you have no clue?" he scoffed. "Primus, a nuclear explosion could go off under your nose and you wouldn't notice it."

The Lamborghini sighed again. "Look, _you_ came to _me_," he reminded the minibot, and Cliffjumper deflated noticeably.

"Yeah," he muttered, sounding defeated. "Yeah, I did." He fidgeted for a moment, and Sideswipe thought that he might have to prompt him again before he finally said, so quietly the Lamborghini had trouble hearing it, "Windcharger." He was very carefully not looking at the bigger mech again.

Sideswipe blinked. "Well," he said, at a loss. He coughed a little. "Well. I can't say I'm not surprised, but…Pit, Cliffjumper, there's at least a chance… Are you gonna let First Aid take a look at you?"

The minibot shook his head violently. "NO! …No. What if he's not—not—" His vocalizer shorted, emitting nothing but static. "I can't deal with that," he finally added, thoroughly miserable. Something about the sight tugged at Sideswipe's spark, and suddenly he was full of sympathy for the beaten little mech. His lips thinned, and he regarded Cliffjumper with a new feeling of determination.

"We're going straight to the medbay, you and I," he said firmly, and took the Porsche by the arm again to keep him from fleeing. :Cliffjumper and I will be right back: he sent to his brother and his bondmate, and then he was force-marching the smaller mech out of the door before either Ratchet or Sunstreaker could do more than turn to look at him.

Cliffjumper fought him half-heartedly, dragging his feet and trying to free his arm from the red twin's grasp.

"You know, I could just carry you, if you'd rather be undignified about this," he told the struggling minibot—and Cliffjumper squeaked in alarm and immediately became docile. Sideswipe shook his head; it was yet another sign of the changes in the normally volatile red Porsche. He sent a quick plea to Ratchet to keep everyone from following them when he heard the ruckus they'd left behind, and, surprisingly enough, they were left alone.

"Did you tell them not to follow us?" Cliffjumper asked in a small voice, sounding worryingly subdued. He'd noticed the fact that they'd not been pursued.

"…Yeah," Sideswipe said at length, glancing sidelong at the minibot in concern. "Are you gonna be okay?"

Cliffjumper snorted bitterly. "Does it look like it?"

Sideswipe sighed. "I'm not as stupid as everyone seems to think I am, you know," he said irritably. "You would never have approached me if you didn't think there was a possibility." Cliffjumper had no answer to that, and they remained silent for the rest of the trip to the medbay.

He was calling for the medic as they were walking through the door. "Hey, First Aid, we've got another possible—oh Primus, I _so_ did not need to see that!" His voice became strangled as the young CMO leaped away from Swoop. First Aid looked like he wanted to melt into a puddle of mortified ambulance, while the Dinobot looked unrepentant and more than a little irritated.

"I—I—" the Protectobot stammered, completely unable to form a coherent word. Sideswipe sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He so did not want to even know.

"Look, 'Aid, I don't give a flying frag _who_ you're 'facing with, but please for the love of Primus do it somewhere else," he said wearily, and First Aid nodded stiffly. Swoop, on the other hand, _growled_ at him. Cliffjumper just stared at them both with wide optics.

"What you Sideswipe want?" the pterosaur asked angrily, deliberately drawing a weakly protesting First Aid back into his embrace.

"You know, Sideswipe, I think maybe we should just leave them alone—"

"Oh no. You're not getting out of it that easy." Sideswipe picked the smaller red mech up bodily and plunked him down on a repair table. He met Swoop's gaze levelly. "I think maybe we've got another one," he explained quietly, and watched as the Dinobot's optics widened in comprehension and amazement. First Aid raised his head from where he'd hidden his face in Swoop's chassis and all but gaped at them.

"Another one?" First Aid breathed, wonderment overcoming his reluctance and pulling him out of his lover's arms. He moved closer to the now-resigned minibot on the table. "Are you sure?"

"No," Cliffjumper said nastily. "And I really don't appreciate being dragged in here by this big lugnut, either," he added, glaring at Sideswipe and First Aid equally.

The ambulance gave him a reproachful look. "Cliffjumper, if there's even a chance—wouldn't you want to do everything you could to save his life?" he asked gently.

Cliffjumper looked away. Finally, he whispered, "Yeah—I guess so." His optics returned to the medic. "Do what ya gotta do," he said decisively; Swoop and First Aid exchanged glances, and then First Aid nodded.

"Alright," the young CMO said softly. "Just lie back and relax; this will be painless, I promise."

The red Porsche snorted. "Somehow, Doc, I doubt that," he murmured, but he followed First Aid's instructions without protest.

"Who was it?" the medic asked as he gently loosened the clasps on Cliffjumper's chest armor. Sideswipe had to give the gutsy little mech some credit; this time he spoke his bondmate's name without hesitation.

When First Aid got the plating up and off, all of the air left his vents in a long sigh, and he looked up at Sideswipe and nodded. The red Lamborghini returned the gesture and, without having to be told, turned and trotted off to where the bodies of the fallen were still being held pending the completion of the mausoleum that was being built.

His mind roiled. How had they missed something like that? Cliffjumper and Windcharger had always been bickering with one another; somehow they'd overlooked the easy and affectionate edge to the arguments. Maybe, when it came to the minibots, they'd all been blind.

He very carefully did not look at any of the other fallen as he retrieved Windcharger's body; he still couldn't bear to see Prime at all.

How he managed to get all the way back to medbay without seeing anyone, he was not quite sure, but he breathed a small prayer of thanks as he crossed the threshold. It was glaringly obvious that Cliffjumper wanted as little of a production made out of this as possible, and he was determined to make it so.

Which was why he nearly leaped out of his armor—and almost dropped Windcharger—when he saw that his brother and bondmate were waiting with a dazed-looking Cliffjumper and the medics in the medbay. Wheeljack and Bluestreak were also there, waiting unobtrusively near the wall. Spike and Sparkplug must have gone home; they were nowhere to be found.

Sideswipe very gingerly set his burden down on a nearby repair table, and then moved to stand with Ratchet and Sunstreaker. The yellow Lamborghini shifted so that their shoulders brushed together in a gesture of reassurance. He jumped again when Ratchet spoke.

"May I help?" he asked softly, sharp optics taking in the proceedings. First Aid's head jerked up from where he had bent over Windcharger's body, and he stared at his former mentor in surprise.

"I—sure," the young medic said diffidently, and indicated for Ratchet to come stand beside him.

Ratchet smiled humorlessly. "You'll have to keep in mind that I don't really remember being anything other than an intern," he said as he peered down at the damaged minibot critically. He glanced up at First Aid, and his expression softened. "As far as I can recall, I'm little more than a student," he added, "and I've never worked directly with a spark chamber. My instructors did not feel that I was ready for that kind of challenge just yet. I would…appreciate the chance for some hands-on experience."

First Aid was apparently struck speechless. For a moment, all he could do was stare at Ratchet, and then finally, hesitantly, he nodded. "I—alright. Let's… let's go ahead and…open him up, I suppose…I'll go get your tools…"

"Me Swoop get them," Swoop said softly, and disappeared into the CMO's office before coming back out with a well-worn toolkit in his big hands. "This belong to you Ratchet," he said, holding it out to the white medic almost reverently.

Sideswipe couldn't help but stare uneasily as First Aid reluctantly took the role of instructor to the very mech that had taught him his craft. The red Lamborghini had slowly been losing sight of just how much his bondmate had lost; watching him behave like a fascinated student brought it crashing back home. He could feel that Sunstreaker was equally disturbed; in fact, the only one that _didn't_ seem weirded out by the role reversal was Wheeljack.

Of course, Wheeljack didn't _remember_ a time when Ratchet was in charge of this medbay, so Sideswipe supposed he had an excuse.

Ratchet smiled in grim satisfaction as he finally eased the spark chamber and its attendant wiring free of Windcharger's body and set it in First Aid's waiting hands. The Protectobot carried it to a suddenly very nervous Cliffjumper, who eyed him warily.

"It'll be alright, Cliffjumper," First Aid said soothingly; conversely, this seemed to make the red Porsche feel worse. He tensed, gaze flicking to Ratchet and back again. The young CMO noticed, and his expression hardened. He regarded Cliffjumper silently until the minibot began squirming uncomfortably. "You're right, I'm no Ratchet," the medic said at length.

Everyone's attention was immediately on him; Ratchet in particular looked startled. "If you think I'm not aware of that, then none of you know me at all. But…Primus-damn it, I am _not_ incompetent! I know that the lot of you see me as—as—some kind of usurper—" His vocalizer crackled into static for a moment, and Swoop took a step toward him in alarmed concern, hand outstretched.

"'Aid," he said helplessly. First Aid did his best to ignore the pterosaur, but Swoop pulled him into his arms anyway, and he gave in with a shudder.

Suddenly Sideswipe was nearly swamped with a guilty sort of shock from Ratchet's part of their bond. He turned to his lover with an instinctive impulse to comfort him and saw Sunstreaker do the same; Ratchet was watching First Aid uncertainly as the other ambulance trembled in Swoop's embrace. The white mech raised a hand and shook his head to stop them from coming to him, and both twins felt him ruthlessly quash his emotions down.

:He needs reassurance more than I do right now: he told them. "I'm sorry, 'Aid," he said aloud in a soft voice. "If you need me to go—"

"No!" First Aid burst out, pulling away from Swoop. "No," he said again, a little quieter this time. "I'm fine, I just… I'm fine," he finished lamely.

"If you 'Aid say so," the Dinobot said doubtfully, eyeing the smaller mech.

"I do say so," First Aid insisted. He expelled the air from his vents in a sigh, and turned back to Cliffjumper, who was watching it all with wide optics. "And besides," he added ruefully, with a self-deprecating smile in his voice, "we have more important issues at hand than my over-emotional fritzing." And then suddenly he was all business again, as though his little mini-breakdown had never occurred, gently coaxing Windcharger's spark from where it resided in it's partner's chest and placing it in stasis. There was an awkward silence for the rest of the procedure, and finally they all just left.

They parted with Wheeljack and Bluestreak at the pair's quarters without a word, though Wheeljack gave Ratchet an impulsive hug that the medic fiercely returned before they vanished inside.

Once they were in the safety of their own quarters, Ratchet walked over and sank down onto the berth with his head in his hands, and Sideswipe and Sunstreaker sat to either side of him, offering quiet comfort.

"Frag," the medic swore viciously. "This is a fragging mess, isn't it?" He lifted his head up to look at his bondmates, leaning back so that he rested against the wall. His expression was haggard. Sideswipe reached out and gathered him up in his arms, and Sunstreaker pressed up against both of them. "I just wanted to help," he whispered in a shaky voice. "I didn't mean to—"

"Shh," Sideswipe murmured, petting the ambulance comfortingly. "This whole thing _is_ a big mess, but it's not your fault, love—_never_ think it's your fault." Sunstreaker sent his own wordless reassurance through their bond, and Ratchet shuddered and clung to the yellow twin's mental presence desperately.

"Make love to me," the medic said suddenly, thickly. "Please—let's renew our bond—"

For a moment all that either twin could do was meet his brother's gaze with wide optics, and then, by unspoken accord, they let their minds fall together as one. Suddenly they were one mech with two bodies, two sets of hands with which to please and comfort their lover, and they drew him into their mental embrace, winding his essence through their own so that none of them could tell where one ended and the other began. The pain and grief began to melt away in the heat of their love; sorrow held no sway in the surety of the bond. It was both an eternity and a white-hot instant before overload swept them up and broke them apart, and they all slowly receded back into themselves, drained and regretful that it was over.

When Sideswipe finally recovered himself and came back to his senses, he was almost amazed to see that they were still sitting in the same position they had started in. Sunstreaker was still out of it; Ratchet was blinking at him with a dazed look in his optics. The red twin twitched a little when he felt an abrupt frisson of surprise run through the medic.

"Ratch?" he croaked weakly, unable to summon the energy to be alarmed.

"I—" Ratchet paused for a moment, and then continued in an awed tone. "You fragger," he breathed softly. "Do you know how long it took me to unwrap Gears?" he asked, smiling widely. Sideswipe blinked at him in confusion, and then his optics widened as his bondmate sent him an image of the minibot wrapped up in silvery tape and dangling from the ceiling of the _Ark_—an image that came from the medic's own memory banks.

The red twin gave a strangled, inarticulate shout of joy and hugged Ratchet so fiercely that the white mech protested laughingly.

"You remember!" Sunstreaker cried, now thoroughly awake and clinging to the medic from the other side, his incredulous relief palpable.

"Only a little bit—but I remember!" Ratchet's optics glowed brightly with pleasure.

"Maybe you'll remember the rest soon," Sunstreaker said hopefully, though neither twin could suppress a slight twinge of disappointment that he hadn't remembered it all.

Ratchet smiled again anyway. "I'm beginning to believe that I might," he whispered, laying his head on Sideswipe's shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Y'all have probably forgot about me by now—but I'm not dead after all! Finally destroyed the Evil Writer's Block of Doom, thanks to some awesome soundboarding help from rageai, and got to writing again! XDD This chapter's a pretty long one for me, so hopefully that'll make up for the hugemongous absence. -.-; Huge thanks to rageai for helping me with the writer's block and the hammering out of the details, and to VAWitch for being the awesomest beta evar and not giving up on me after all these months. Hopefully I still have some readers left after all this time.

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"And you say that the memory returned to you right after bonding?" First Aid asked softly, peering at the screen of the little device he was using to scan Ratchet's memory banks. Wires ran from the scanner to a jack in the base of the white mech's helm; it was a bit of an unnerving sight.

Ratchet nodded a bit self-consciously, watching closely as his creation and former apprentice ran his tests.

Jazz shifted uncomfortably and gave Prowl, standing stiffly beside him, a short glance. After the brief flare of hope when the tactician remembered Chip's name, they had not had any other indication that his bondmate was making any progress at all, and Prowl's behavior was so much that of a sparkling that it made Jazz feel more than a little creepy.

A light touch on his hand drew his attention back to the black-and-white Datsun; Prowl was watching him with a hint of concern coloring his impassive expression. Jazz smiled at him reassuringly, but he could tell that his bondmate was not fooled.

First Aid had summoned them all after having been informed that Ratchet had regained a few snippets of memory, wanting to check everyone for any signs that the damage might be repairing itself. The twins hovered over Ratchet, and Wheeljack and Bluestreak stood across from Jazz and Prowl, tightly holding hands. Cliffjumper watched it all from his seat next to Windcharger's body, almost absently stroking the cold hand.

Jazz had stared at the minibot in unabashed surprise when they had first walked in. He'd known that the pair were bonded—very little had ever escaped him when it came to the doings of the Earth-bound Autobots—but for some reason, it had never occurred to him that the same thing that happened to him and Prowl might have happened to them. Then again, he supposed that he had been too blinded by his own problems to be all that observant at the time.

Finally First Aid unhooked the wires from Ratchet, and indicated for Prowl to take the white medic's place. Jazz winced in sympathy as the Protectobot jacked his scanner into Prowl's head—he'd caught the brief flash of discomfort that his bondmate had felt.

"Just relax, Prowl," First Aid murmured, gaze never leaving the scanner's screen. "This won't take too long." Prowl nodded, and Jazz squeezed his hand reassuringly.

The Porsche's mind wandered back to his musings. He wondered what it was about Earth that had prompted so many of the ones who'd been stranded here to take up the practice of bonding again—and yet, the more that he thought about it, the more that the pieces began to fall into place.

Back on Cybertron, they had been desperate and outnumbered and half-starved; the Decepticons had pressed them hard, and being so closely tied to another person who might die in the next orn was a liability that none of them could afford. It had been so for longer than any of them really cared to remember. And then, on Earth…for the first time in vorns, resources were plentiful, and the Autobots finally had the upper hand. They had felt comfortable, safe. They had had the time to form the attachments that they never would have dared to back on Cybertron—they had become a family unit, of sorts.

And some had become closer than that.

His gaze returned to Prowl; the Datsun's optics were focused on whatever First Aid was doing with his little device. He and Prowl had had an understanding for vorns, and the near miss of the crash on Earth had scared them both so badly that they had needed the closeness of the bond to reassure themselves of one another's presence. And now…

Jazz fought hard to keep the sorrow from bubbling up where Prowl could sense it. It would only distress the Datsun to no good end, and Primus knew that he didn't need any more stress.

"Alright, we're finished," First Aid said quietly, disconnecting Prowl from the scanner and motioning for Wheeljack. Prowl reached out and gripped Jazz's hand tightly as they moved away to let Wheeljack and Bluestreak take their places.

::You're upset,:: Prowl said, a simple statement of fact that Jazz couldn't really refute without lying.

::Just a little disappointed,:: he admitted, giving the white hand in his a small squeeze. The Datsun frowned, but said nothing else as they waited for First Aid to finish with Wheeljack.

The young CMO's optics were bright behind his visor when he looked up from his little scanner at last. "Well," he began cautiously, "I don't know why it's more pronounced in Ratchet than in either Prowl or Wheeljack, but you're all starting to show signs that your memory banks are repairing themselves." He held up a hand to forestall the babble of voices that had arisen after his statement. "BUT. The signs are very faint in Prowl and Wheeljack, and there's no real way to tell how long it will take, or if anyone will regain all or even most of their memories."

"But there's hope," Jazz said quietly, a question in his voice. He somehow kept himself from flinching at the pitying look that First Aid gave him.

"Yeah," the Protectobot replied, nodding. "Yeah, there's definitely hope."

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"I'm worried about Jazz," Prowl said calmly, contemplating the chess board with a thoughtful expression. Trailbreaker sat across from him; once he'd learned that Chip had re-taught Prowl how to play, the defensive strategist had sought him out for a game. He could admit to himself that, no matter what he'd been told or made himself believe, he had been completely unprepared for meeting his friend again. Prowl was so very… different… and yet, still so much the same.

"How so?" Trailbreaker asked, watching as the Datsun carefully made his move.

Prowl frowned. "I…" He made a frustrated sound, shook his head. "He's taking this all very badly," he said finally. "I mean, it's not like I've forgotten _him._"

"Hmm," Trailbreaker murmured, nudging a pawn forward. "Well, it's got to bother him that you've forgotten everything else. I think I'd go crazy, if it were me."

Prowl scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "I _know_ it bothers him, but I'm still _me_. That hasn't changed, and he acts as though it has."

Trailbreaker smiled gently. "I hate to break it to you, Prowl, but you _have_ changed, just enough to make everyone jumpy around you." The black mech paused, regarded his companion thoughtfully. "Now, just out of curiosity—and don't take this the wrong way, please—but why are you telling me this? I'm no expert on relationships, and I'm certainly no expert on Jazz."

The Datsun considered for a moment. "I guess…I guess it's because you're the first person I've spoken to since I woke up that hasn't treated me like I'm made of glass." He gave Trailbreaker a humorless smile. "Including Jazz."

The big black mech winced; that couldn't have been pleasant, and he knew—_had_ known—Prowl well enough to know that just because the tactician was stoic did not mean he was emotionless. "Have you told him that?" he asked cautiously. Prowl gave him a wry look.

"No," he said. "I haven't the spark to tell him to stop coddling me, to be honest. It makes him feel like he's helping in something that really is beyond help. Either my memory will come back, or it won't, and he knows that…except, I can tell that it _kills_ him to be in a situation that he can't control in some way."

"Ah," was all that Trailbreaker said, and they each made several more moves before he spoke again. "I never would have pegged him for a…well, for lack of a better term…a control freak," he observed mildly.

"Jazz is a lot of things that most people wouldn't peg him for," Prowl said matter-of-factly. "And before you ask—no, I don't really remember what he's like, but I _am_ bonded to him. It gives me a little insight into how his mind works, even if he keeps most of his thoughts and emotions shielded from me." Trailbreaker wondered if Prowl knew how wistful his smile was.

"Jazz'll recover sooner or later. He always does," the defensive strategist offered quietly.

Prowl sighed. "Perhaps," he said, doorwings drooping a little before he straightened and refocused his attention on their game.

Once again, both mechs contemplated the board in silence, carefully making moves and counter-moves before continuing their conversation.

"You know," Trailbreaker said thoughtfully as the Datsun moved his remaining knight deep into enemy territory, "there's something you could probably try with him, see if it calms him down any."

Prowl's optics snapped up from the board to look at him. "Anything," he said fervently.

The black mech grinned. "Jump him," he said succinctly.

"I… beg your pardon?" Prowl blinked, shocked.

Trailbreaker laughed. "Jump his bolts. Shag him senseless. Blow his circuits—whatever you want to call it, interface with him. I somehow doubt he'll turn you down."

The former Autobot Subcommander looked at a complete loss. "How is that supposed to help?" he spluttered, gaping at the bigger mech. "I don't see how it's any of your business, anyway," he added stiffly. He held his doorwings high and rigid behind himself, a sure sign of his agitation. Frankly, Trailbreaker was surprised that Jazz hadn't come to check on them yet, as upset as Prowl was at the moment.

The big black mech's chuckles finally began to die down. "Just trust me on this. It'll probably help, and it really can't hurt," he said, amusement still coloring his voice.

"Hmph," Prowl muttered, looking for all the world like a sulking sparkling as he watched Trailbreaker make his next move.

"Check!" the defensive strategist announced cheerfully.

Prowl suddenly gave one of his enigmatic smiles and, making a single bold move, corrected softly, "Check_mate_."

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Jazz felt a sort of guilty relief as he slunk away from his quarters, leaving Prowl in Trailbreaker's (admittedly capable) hands. He had been mortifyingly eager when the big defensive strategist had asked about the possibility of a game of chess; it had bothered him a lot less than it should have to leave them setting up the board.

Although, he reasoned to himself, Trailbreaker was certainly levelheaded enough to keep Prowl safe. It was not as though he had _abandoned_ Prowl… He shook himself out of that line of reasoning.

He wandered aimlessly through the City, always taking the smaller, less-traveled corridors, pausing when he saw someone to let them pass without seeing him. He didn't feel up to dealing with the uncertain, almost pitying looks that his comrades-in-arms had lately been giving him, and keeping up appearances was becoming more difficult by the day. He just didn't have it in him to play the social 'Bot anymore, not since everything had gone to hell and back.

Primus, he'd gotten to the point that he couldn't stand to be around _Prowl_ for too long any more—not when the Datsun looked at him with such blind, unthinking trust in his optics.

He didn't know why it should bother him so badly that Prowl had that much faith in him; perhaps it was the fact that that kind of faith, due to the former tactician's lack of memories, was entirely unfounded. And the Prowl that he had lost simply _did not_ give his trust so lightly. It made it downright unnerving to see his bondmate just _accept_ everything Jazz told him at face value. He kept expecting Prowl to be wary of him, to question the love that he undeniably felt but couldn't explain.

And in all honesty, it surprised Jazz that the Datsun's overdeveloped logic center hadn't been giving him fits.

Suddenly he laughed at himself, a bitter, hard sound that barely qualified as such—here he was, actually _hoping_ that Prowl's processors would freeze up from the sheer illogical impossibility of it all for the first time since he had known the tactician. Pit, the first time the glitch had acted up, it had scared Jazz to his core. He'd thought that Prowl's processor had crashed, that this newly-found, unlooked-for friend would spend the rest of his existence as what the humans might call a 'vegetable'. The relief that he'd felt when he found out that it was just a glitch and was treatable had been so great that he'd had to rethink exactly what he was starting to feel for the stoic black and white mech. It had been the first in a long series of small steps that had eventually led them to commit to each other—and, ultimately, to bond.

The fact that Prowl did not remember all of those little steps, those myriad tiny reasons that they loved each other, hurt more than any physical wound ever could.

Lost in his thoughts, Jazz barely noticed when his wanderings took him outside of the complex, and then outside of the City entirely. He was taken aback to look up and see trees surrounding him instead of metal walls, and then cursed himself when he realized that his inattentiveness had caused him to blunder right into a clearing currently occupied—by Mirage and Hound. Both of them looked up in surprise when he stepped out of the forest.

"Jazz?" Mirage asked, confused and perhaps a little annoyed. "Is something wrong?"

The saboteur gave his friends a sickly smile. "No, no, nothing wrong," he said, infusing his tone with a cheer that he hoped did not sound as fake as it felt. He realized that he had not fooled Mirage when the blue and white spy exchanged a concerned glance with Hound.

"Hound," Mirage murmured apologetically, "would you excuse us for a moment?" At first it seemed as though the scout would object, his mouth drawing up in a frown, and then he took another look at Jazz's face and nodded.

"I'll see you in a few," he said quietly, and then vanished amongst the trees.

Mirage turned back to Jazz, who plastered on another phony smile and wished he had paid better attention to where he'd been going.

"Something's bothering you," the Ligier said bluntly. When Jazz started to protest, Mirage's optics narrowed, and he interrupted impatiently, "I've known you too long, Jazz—what is it?"

"Am I that obvious?" Jazz asked glumly, abruptly dropping down to sit on the ground. Mirage smiled slightly.

"Only if you know what to look for," he reassured the Porsche.

Jazz snorted. "Then how come Hound noticed?" he inquired dryly, giving Mirage a questioning look. To the saboteur's surprise, Mirage laughed out loud at that.

"You're losing your touch," he said, both amused and mildly reproving. "Hound and I are bonded, as of last week," he added, and Jazz gaped at him. How could he have possibly missed something like that?

Oh, yeah. Prowl. That's right.

The Porsche scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed. "Congrats, I guess," he offered tentatively, feeling as though he ought to say something but really not in the mood to congratulate anyone for anything.

Mirage shrugged. "I don't mind that you didn't notice," he said calmly. "I know that this business with Prowl has got to be hard. That's what's bothering you, isn't it?"

The saboteur gave him a sour look. "There are times that I wish you weren't Special Ops," he muttered, dropping his gaze again. "Too perceptive by half."

The blue and white spy just hummed noncommittally and crossed his arms over his chestplate as though to say, 'I'm waiting.'

Jazz sighed. "Look, this ain't easy, alright?"

"Obviously."

"You aren't making it any easier."

"…Sorry." The blue and white mech was genuinely contrite. To Jazz's surprise, Mirage came over and sat down beside him. "We've been through some pretty tight spots together, haven't we?" the Ligier asked softly, contemplatively.

Jazz frowned. "Yeah, I… suppose we have," he replied, a little confused by the abrupt subject change despite himself. Mirage was right—he _was_ losing his touch.

That answer seemed to satisfy the former noblemech, and they sat in silence for a time. Finally, however, Mirage turned to look at him appraisingly.

"Hound is the only person in the galaxy that I have," he said bluntly. "If I lost him, in any way, I would be alone." His optics seemed to pierce Jazz through to the core. "I don't want to be alone again. I think I would go crazy." The last was delivered in a reluctant whisper. Jazz stared in shock, and then looked away.

"I…" The saboteur bowed his head. He had not expected such a candid confession—Primus, he did not need this now. Except… was that not the position that he found himself in, right now? He had so wrapped himself up in Prowl, made himself so dependent on his bondmate that being alone was killing him. And he _was_ alone, no lying to himself about that, no matter how many mechs there were who could claim him as friend.

He had no friends. None but Prowl—and Prowl was… not himself.

And yet… and yet, here was Mirage, confiding in him, offering his confidence. Offering friendship.

"…I don't want to be alone, either."

For a long moment, Jazz was unable to meet Mirage's gaze. Finally he forced himself to lift his optics, forced his expression to appear steady and unwavering. The Ligier was by no means obligated, despite their many years of service together, to extend such a gesture to him; in fact, it surprised Jazz that Mirage was able to pull his attention away from his new bondmate long enough to do so.

Well, if Mirage could focus enough to reach out, then so could he.

Mirage smiled at him. "You don't have to be," he said softly.

"I had to get away," Jazz said suddenly, and the words came to him easily now, flowing in a torrent. "He's not… He looks like Prowl, and he talks like Prowl—"

"—but he's not really Prowl," Mirage finished for him, almost gently.

"…Yeah." Jazz's attention was on the ground again, as though it were the most fascinating thing in the universe. He plucked at the grass nervously. "And Primus help him, but he still loves me even though he doesn't have a clue who I am anymore. I think that bothers me more than any of it. He doesn't even question why!" The Porsche's voice was nearly a despairing wail.

"Well you don't want him to hate you, do you?" Mirage asked, looking a bit uneasy at the outburst and yet still determined to let Jazz have his say.

"I'm afraid that he might, once the newness wears off," was the bitter reply.

The Ligier sniffed in disdain. "Oh _please_. You're bonded. I may be a little new to this, but I was under the impression that that doesn't just 'wear off'."

Jazz gave him a scornful look. "Just you wait 'til the 'honeymoon' stage is over," he said coolly. "Bondmate or not, there's always gonna be something he does that'll make you want to kill him." He felt a little guilty at Mirage's angry expression.

"Give me a little more credit than that," Mirage snapped. "I've been with Hound for long enough to want to shove his intakes out through his exhaust when he starts nattering on about this accursed organic planet—it doesn't make me love him any less."

"I'm sorry," Jazz whispered, shrinking in on himself a bit—and was surprised when his companion shook his head dismissively.

"It's nothing," the Ligier said shortly, though the saboteur could tell that he was still annoyed. A strained silence stretched between them, making both of them shift awkwardly, and then Mirage sighed. "Look, really, don't worry about it, all right?" His optics became suddenly unfocused, and a small, unexpectedly warm smile touched his lips. The smile faded when he refocused on Jazz, though the lingering warmth in his expression did not. "I should be going; Hound is getting anxious," he said softly. "Will you be all right?"

Jazz had to stop and consider how to answer. "I do feel better, now," the saboteur decided, wonderingly. Mirage nodded.

"So do I. Shall we?" He rose to his feet, all elegance and understated grace, and extended a hand to Jazz. Jazz took it gratefully and allowed Mirage to pull him upright.

"Thanks," the Porsche said, gripping the other mech's hand for just a moment longer than necessary.

Mirage just smiled again, and Jazz went back to the City with a lighter spark.

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"Are you sure this will work?" Prowl asked dubiously, eyeing the mud wallow that Trailbreaker had led him to with a jaundiced air.

"Of course," the big defensive strategist replied confidently. "My plans almost always work."

"_Almost_ always?" Prowl muttered under his breath, all the while steeling himself to wade into the goopy mess at his feet. Once he'd actually decided to do it, Trailbreaker had managed to convince him that the best way to seduce Jazz was to get him into the washracks—and that the best way to get Jazz into the washracks was to get so dirty that he had to have help in cleaning himself off.

"It won't hurt you," Trailbreaker teased, stepping down into the muck. His footsteps _squelched._ Prowl's optics widened in alarm and he nearly backed away, only stopping himself at the last moment. "It's just a little dirt and water."

"It's disgusting!" the tactician protested. He stuck a tentative foot into it, shuddering at the slimy way that it oozed beneath him.

Trailbreaker laughed at him and then, before Prowl knew what the black mech was up to, grabbed his arm and yanked him in hard enough to bring him to his knees in it. "C'mon, Prowl, the whole point of this is to get dirty! Don't tell me you're getting squeamish on account of a little mud?" The Datsun struggled to his feet, though not before flailing around and sinking his hands and arms in up to the elbow. He gave Trailbreaker an evil look.

"This had better work," the black and white said grimly, and his tone promised retribution if it did not.

The defensive strategist grinned brightly. "Hey now, this is fun, you know? Me and Hound go mudding all the time, it's great! So just relax, and we'll do you up proper, okay?" He scooped up a big handful of mud, and this time Prowl did back up—except, he was unable to keep his footing in the slippery mudpit, and fell flat on his skidplate. He could only watch in resignation as Trailbreaker waded over to him and dumped the entire handful of cold, nasty slop onto him with a splat.

The black mech repeated this process until he felt that Prowl was sufficiently mud-covered, making sure to spread it liberally over the Datsun's chassis each time—and, after a while, Prowl actually started to help.

Keeping himself from laughing was taking all of the willpower that Trailbreaker possessed.

And how he managed to provoke Prowl into a mud fight would forever elude him.

By the time that they had both calmed down and dragged themselves out of the mud, it was getting late, and the mud wallow looked like dinosaurs had been fighting in it. Trailbreaker examined Prowl's appearance with a self-satisfied air.

"There's no way you'll be able to get all of that off by yourself," he announced smugly, and Prowl nodded.

"I think that perhaps I have mud in places I did not know that I had," the tactician replied thoughtfully, running a finger across the drying muck on his chestplate. He looked up and eyed Trailbreaker. "And I also think that perhaps I'm not the only one who will need help getting rid of this stuff. I would offer, but I have the feeling that that would defeat the purpose." He gave the bigger mech a wry smile.

Trailbreaker shrugged. "Eh," he said, grinning broadly, "I'm sure I can find someone to help me with it."

"If you're certain…" Prowl replied doubtfully. "I should probably be getting back," he added ruefully, "Jazz will no doubt panic if I'm not there when he returns to our quarters."

The black mech nodded. "All right. Go on ahead, then—I think I'll stay out here and enjoy what's left of the sunlight before I head in." Prowl cast a suspicious optic over him, but did not otherwise protest having to make his way back to his quarters alone.

Once the tactician was out of audio range, Trailbreaker's control broke. He laughed himself sick, mentally replaying the image of the dignified Datsun rolling in the mud like an exuberant sparkling. There would never, in the history of the universe, be another opportunity to see something like that again.

"What I wouldn't give for a recording device!" he lamented to himself. "No one would ever believe me."

"Ask, and you shall receive."

Trailbreaker leaped backwards in surprise at the disembodied voice—straight into the mud wallow. He glared as a laughing Mirage shimmered into view, holding up a small recorder.

Smoothly, amusement in his cultured voice, the blue spy asked, "What _would_ you give for a recording device, hm?" Optics glinting, he waved the little recorder enticingly.

Arching an optic ridge incredulously, Trailbreaker asked, "You mean to tell me that you managed to record that whole thing?"

Mirage gave him a smug little smile. "Most of it."

"…oh, you're _good_."

The Ligier's smile widened briefly.

"Actually," a new voice called grumpily, "_I_ recorded most of it, and _he_ took the recorder away." Hound emerged from the forest, looking a little irritated. Trailbreaker eyed him in surprise; it took a great deal to irritate Hound.

Mirage made a soft sound of amusement. "You only recorded it because I asked you to, because I couldn't come myself at the moment."

The green scout snorted in disgruntlement. "Yes, and I didn't do it so that you could do what you're thinking of doing with it."

Trailbreaker turned a speculative look on Mirage. "So what _are_ you thinking of doing with it?"

The Ligier looked positively smug. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know?"

"Well, considering I'm in the recording, I don't think that's an unreasonable request," the black mech drawled dryly.

Mirage gave him a calculating look. "I have a business proposition for you," he said smoothly.

"Aw, Mirage…" Hound complained, but Mirage ignored him.

Trailbreaker ignored him too. "A business proposition?" he asked, his interest piqued, visor narrowing shrewdly. "Nothing… unethical… I take it?"

The blue and white mech shrugged. "No more unethical than any of the other goings-on that have happened among the old crew," he replied. He didn't have to explain what 'old crew' he meant. The original crew of the Ark had been inventive in the ways they had cheerfully tortured each other, but none of the myriad practical jokes had been truly mean-spirited—just very, very embarrassing.

"Jazz will have your head," Hound grumbled.

"Jazz needs something to focus on besides the issue with Prowl," Mirage replied equably. "He'll thank me when he gets over being angry."

"…if you say so." The Jeep looked unconvinced.

Trailbreaker frowned. "So what _are_ you planning, anyway? And what are you going to give me for this that's worth being on Jazz's hit list?"

Mirage smiled sweetly. "How does forty percent sound?"

Trailbreaker's reply was immediate. "Half."

Mirage's smile widened into something that could almost be called a grin, an expression that was echoed by the big defensive strategist. "Deal."

Hound groaned with dismay.

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"How in the name of Primus did you get so filthy?" Jazz grumbled, dousing Prowl with cleanser as the two of them stood beneath the spray of their personal washracks. Thank Primus that all of the quarters in Autobot City had private washing facilities—the Datsun was so muddy that he needed help getting all of it off.

"I accepted Trailbreaker's offer of a drive. We found a mud hole," Prowl replied mildly.

Jazz snorted. "Looks like you found it with all four tires." He picked up a brush and began scrubbing at the caked-on mud that the shower hadn't yet washed away.

Prowl smiled slightly. "It's possible that we may have had a bit of a mud fight," he admitted. He paused for a moment. "If it makes you feel any better, Trailbreaker was in worse shape than me," he added in a soft voice. He missed the startled expression that crossed Jazz's face at the words 'mud fight'.

The Porsche heaved a long-suffering sigh, vents hissing. "I can just imagine," he murmured dryly. He carefully began working at the dirt packed in under the tactician's bumper and heard Prowl make a soft sound of relief when the majority of it came away in one piece. Jazz ruthlessly clamped down on the desire that rose on hearing that quiet little noise; now was definitely not the time for such things.

Suddenly, in a very matter-of-fact tone, Prowl said, "I love you, you know," and Jazz froze, staring at him openmouthed for a moment. Prowl just gazed back serenely. The saboteur gradually resumed his scrubbing, suddenly fascinated by his brush, and tried hard not to think that the mech before him was not really his Prowl anymore.

"I—I love you too," he whispered, without looking up. He moved behind his bonded, beginning to loosen the mud caked on and around the sweeping doorwings. He did his best to be careful, knowing how sensitive the appendages were; still, Prowl shuddered and flinched as he cleaned them.

Prying at a particularly stubborn clump of mud, Jazz winced when his fingers slipped and dug into one door hinge, causing Prowl to gasp. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to soothe the place he'd accidentally scraped.

The Datsun pulled his doorwings out of Jazz's grasp and turned to face him—and the saboteur realized that his optics were a smoldering indigo. "You're not hurting me," Prowl said, voice low and a little hoarse.

And Jazz suddenly became aware of the heat radiating from the other mech's frame, of the way that his engine was purring. His optics grew wide beneath the visor, and he couldn't help but shiver. "P-prowl?" he asked, hesitantly. He could feel his own systems heating up in instinctive response no matter how he tried to quell them; the water rolling off of their frames began to steam.

"Jazz," Prowl said softly, reaching up to cup the Porsche's face in his hands, "I'm here, and I'm not going to break," and then he leaned forward and kissed him.

He couldn't help himself; once Jazz recovered from the initial shock he found himself returning the kiss despite all of his misgivings. His arms drifted up to wrap around Prowl's neck of their own volition—and was that _him_ making that desperate little noise?

"Oh Primus, _Prowl!_" Jazz gasped when they finally parted, leaning against his bondmate as the other black and white pulled him fully into his arms. Prowl's hands were tentatively tracing transformation seams, flicking lightly underneath to touch sensitive components, and Jazz _could not stop himself_ from transmitting the overwhelming need he felt through their bond.

"I'm not a sparkling, Jazz," Prowl said roughly. "You're not the only one who needs this." Abruptly his kisses and caresses became _demanding_, and the saboteur gave up even trying for a pretense of resistance.

He moaned, pressing as close to the other mech as he dared, molding their forms together as best he could, and Prowl responded, pulling him in tighter against his chassis. Jazz reveled in the closeness, craving it desperately; this was the first time that he and Prowl had shared more than a casual touch since the Datsun's miraculous return.

At first, all he could manage to do was to feel, to _experience_ the sensations that he'd never thought to feel again—the vibration of his bondmate's engine against his metal skin as it revved in excitement, the way his own engine purred in response, the sweet warmth of Prowl's mouth fitting perfectly over his own. Suddenly, however, he realized that all he was doing was clinging and making little needy whimpers, and, through the haze of arousal, he decided that something _had_ to be done to correct that. His hands drifted from Prowl's neck to smooth over the swell of his hood, and the Datsun's intakes hitched when they slipped down across his headlights, fingers gently tracing the contours of the transparent covers.

He quickly discovered that Prowl was not out of tricks, though, when one of his bondmate's hands stole up to his helm and fondled one of his short sensory antennae, wringing a moan out of Jazz's vocalizer. The sound seemed to please the other black and white mech, and he made a soft noise of satisfaction before his other hand moved to imitate the Porsche's, caressing Jazz's headlights.

Jazz moaned again, and he abandoned Prowl's headlights for the time being. He felt like shouting in triumph when his fingers in his partner's sensitive door hinges provoked a low, desperate noise of pleasure and an accompanying rev of his engine. Prowl's hands left both headlight and antenna in favor of clutching Jazz to his chassis. He was holding just a little too hard, but the Porsche couldn't honestly say that he minded.

Abruptly Jazz become conscious of being horizontal; they were lying on the floor while the pressurized spray from the washrack continued to beat against their plating. He had vague memories of having pressed Prowl down to lie beneath him as he'd straddled the white thighs, but he didn't stop to think too hard about it, not when all of his attention was taken up with the way that his bondmate arched up beneath him, doorwings spread alluringly behind him.

Jazz sat back for a moment, admiring the chassis before him, the wanton look on the face that only _he_ can inspire, the cobalt optics, dark and just a little dazed with need, this sight he never thought he'd see again. That last thought nearly overwhelmed him, and he offlined his visor as he trembled for the briefest second before he switched it back on and smiled reassuringly in response to the confusion in those beautiful optics.

Just like that, he had to carefully not let himself think of the person behind that face, behind the trusting, needing optics, to not let himself think that this was wrong, was taking advantage, was a _betrayal_.

Because this wasn't his Prowl. Not really.

"_Jazz,_" Prowl panted, hands drawing him down once again, their chassis flush with each other. "_Jazz—_I _need_ you…" Jazz gasped, deeply affected by the pleading in _that voice_, and he allowed himself to be pulled down on top of the warm body under him.

His voice was a shaking whisper as he fell back into the web of desire. "Oh, _Prowl…_ oh, love, you can have me…" He leaned forward for an eager, thorough kiss, trying to keep himself from thinking any more, to just lose himself in the moment. Prowl's hands moved feverishly over his frame, making him gasp and whimper with need and the pleasure that was starting to rise in him, to burn in every circuit. He could sense a faint echo through the bond and knew that Prowl was nearly as undone as he was, but neither mech tried to reach out through that intimate medium, just afraid enough of what they would find, or of what they would let slip, to shy away from mental contact.

Regardless, their tie was enough, even inactive, to let him know that his bondmate was searching for an interface port, desperate and craving that physical connection before arousal and desire burned them to cinders. He captured one of the white hands roaming across his frame, and the free one stilled as Jazz gently led the captive one to the correct port. For a time Prowl was unmoving save for the heaving of his intakes and vents and the minute trembling that betrayed his excitement—and then, tentatively, so carefully, he caressed, and Jazz cried out as pleasure flared white hot through him.

He writhed and moaned when, emboldened, Prowl stroked a little firmer, fingers occasionally dipping into the port, crackles of static arcing between his fingertips and the heated metal of the opening. Jazz was so lost to the sensation flooding him that, at first, he didn't notice the absence of the caresses—until they were replaced with a data jack, and Prowl's systems came into sync with his own.

He screamed as he was filled with the Datsun's pleasure on top of his own, barely aware of the squeal of metal as their hands scrabbled for any hold they could get on one another's frames, each desperate to hold the other close. Beneath him, Prowl cried out and bucked up into him, already near the edge though they'd barely started.

For a long moment Jazz fought, fought _hard_, to hold off the overload that hovered over them like a breaking wave, but the sensation was too much and his control snapped and took Prowl's with it. He screamed again as both of their engines redlined, mindless and sobbing with pleasure as the release rolled through them both.

It seemed as though it took forever to recede, leaving them both shaking and exhausted in its wake. They lay still for a long time, trembling as their bodies cooled, neither quite willing to break the silence just yet.

Jazz's mind whirled in a confused mix of unbelievable happiness and terror and love before, slowly, a single thought began to come to the forefront: this very morning, he had learned that Ratchet, under circumstances that were very similar to the ones Jazz and Prowl found themselves in right now, had regained at least some of his memories.

Suddenly, his trembling was for a very different reason.

He tried to keep the abrupt mix of hope and fear from worrying his partner, but he was not really surprised when, softly, Prowl whispered, "Jazz? Is… something wrong?"

Jazz kept the quiet for a few more moments. Finally, fighting to keep his voice even, he asked hopefully, "Prowl… do you… I mean…" He trailed off, struggling with how to word what he wanted to ask, and dreading to hear the answer once he managed to do so.

"Do I what?" the Datsun asked, smoothing a hand across his back soothingly, sensing his bondmate's fear.

Steeling himself, Jazz murmured, "Do you…remember anything?" The painful hope in his voice was nearly sparkbreaking, even to his own audios—and Prowl flinched.

"No," he said, a little dully. "I don't…remember anything."

Disappointment was sharp and immediate and impossible to conceal.

Prowl stiffened, and then suddenly he was disconnected from Jazz's systems and pushing the saboteur away, struggling to sit up. Jazz let him go without a fight, shocked by the strength of his own reaction as much as by Prowl's response to it.

Softly, not looking at his bondmate, Prowl whispered, "It's not _me_ you want, is it? It's _him._"

The Porsche couldn't quite stop a low sound of pain—because he abruptly realized that it was true. This person in front of him _looked_ like the mech he loved, and _sounded_ like the mech he loved, but they were not the same, and Jazz desperately wanted the old Prowl—_his_ Prowl—back. It hurt, this new self-awareness, like a knife twisting in his spark as he understood just how great a disservice he had done his bondmate, who still loved him unquestioningly despite his pining for a mech who no longer truly existed.

Prowl nodded, optics a little unfocused, catching at least the tenor of his bondmate's thoughts even though the details escaped him. "I love you," he murmured softly, not looking at Jazz as he spoke. "I may not know the why or the how, but that doesn't change that I do. And you—you're still in love with who I used to be."

The knife twisted a little further. "Oh, _Prowl_…"

Finally, the Datsun's optics lifted to meet his bondmate's gaze. "Tell me—what is it that I don't have that you need?"

Jazz flinched, because the first thought that crossed his mind, before he could stop it, was '_Everything.'_ He saw that Prowl caught it by the stiffening of his doorwings, the way they hitched defensively higher in automatic response. He watched helplessly from the floor as the tactician stood and shut off the now-cooled spray from the washrack, only turning to Jazz after the flow had ceased.

"I love you," Prowl said again, "but until I know it's _me_ you're 'facing with and not a ghost, I think it's best if we don't repeat this." The Porsche recoiled, looking away, offlining his visor as another noise of pain escaped his vocalizer. He turned it back on in time to see his bondmate looking back over his shoulder with an unreadable expression.

"Oh, and I forgot to tell you—I won," he said quietly.

"…what?" Jazz managed, startled and struggling to comprehend through the guilt and agony that filled his spark.

"The game. With Trailbreaker. I won." And with one last unfathomable look, he left.

It was the final nail in the coffin, the realization that he'd never even _thought_ to ask about the chess match—and, if he were being honest with himself, that he'd half expected Prowl to lose. After all, a sparkling didn't really stand a chance against a strategist of Trailbreaker's caliber, advanced tactical programming or not. It was a slap in the face on top of everything else—the last bit of proof that he couldn't ignore telling him that Prowl was most assuredly _not_ a sparkling.

Jazz curled up on the floor and quietly keened his grief.


	9. Chapter 9

Wow, I've been gone a long time, huh? This chapter is not as long as I'd intended it to be, but I just couldn't think of a way to smoothly flow into the next bit of the story without breaking into another chapter. Many many thanks to rageai, who spent a lot of time soundboarding this chapter and quite a bit of the remaining story with me. She really helped add a great deal of depth that this story would otherwise have lacked. Thank you so much.

* * *

Bluestreak peeked in the open door of the lab and then sidled up to a very bemused-looking Perceptor. "So, uh, what's he doing, anyway? He's been feeling a little—I dunno, disappointed or something ever since he's been here."

Perceptor blinked and glanced at him sidelong. "I believe that he is attempting to think of a project to occupy himself with that he has not already completed," the scientist said blandly.

"Huh." Bluestreak stared at Wheeljack, sitting at a lab table and tapping a stylus against a datapad, deep in thought. "Attempting?"

Perceptor's voice was wry. "He has not yet been successful."

"Huh," the Datsun said again, watching as his bondmate suddenly brightened and began scribbling furiously on the datapad, muttering unintelligibly the whole while. Bluestreak shook his head, baffled, as always, by his beloved's behaviour when in a laboratory setting. He stood in silence for a time, fidgeting a bit restlessly beside Perceptor as Wheeljack chuckled to himself and continued to write as fast as he could.

When the grey gunner finally decided he couldn't take the quiet anymore and opened his mouth to speak, Wheeljack sat up straighter, shooting Perceptor a triumphant look, and slid the datapad across the table for the microscope to look at. "There! Get a load of that!" Apparently noticing Bluestreak for the first time, he flashed—literally—his version of a grin, vocal indicators lighting up happily. "Hey, Blue! Didn't see ya standing there!" He couldn't help but smile in return—Wheeljack's boundless enthusiasm was always so contagious.

Perceptor picked up the datapad with the air of one who has done this a hundred times already today, perusing the contents for a moment before shaking his head as though unsurprised. "I am sorry, Wheeljack," he offered, "but I am afraid that this particular type of thermonuclear shielding has been incorporated into our standard defenses for vorns now…"

"In other words, I already invented it," Wheeljack translated, obviously crestfallen. Bluestreak couldn't help but feel bad for him as Perceptor nodded ruefully.

"Well, _dammit_," the Lancia said, frustrated. "Is there _anything_ I haven't already done?"

"Very little," Bluestreak offered, prompting both scientists to look at him in surprise. "What?" he asked defensively. "Even I know that."

"Sorry, Blue," Wheeljack apologized. "I didn't mean to be insulting." The gunner sent him a wordless little bubble of reassurance through the bond, and Wheeljack smiled at him again briefly, then huffed a morose sigh. Looking back at Perceptor again with an almost-hopeful expression, the Lancia asked, "Aren't there any unfinished projects of mine that I can take a look at the notes for?"

Perceptor shook his head again. "I sincerely apologize, Wheeljack. I am afraid that most of the plans for your unfinished projects and inventions were obliterated—most likely by your own hand, to keep them out of enemy possession—during the Decepticon offensive against Autobot City, and what few files remain have been reduced to fragments - of which we've been unable to decipher anything, despite our best efforts," he said, sounding remorseful.

"What about projects he's already completed? Don't you have the files for those squirreled away somewhere safe?" Bluestreak asked, surprising himself and the two scientists with him. They both blinked at him for a moment, and then Wheeljack began to brighten.

"Bluestreak, you're brilliant!" the engineer said, beaming again. "That way I'll at least know what I've already done!" Bluestreak ducked his head bashfully at the praise and stammered something inaudible.

"That we are _aware_ of," Perceptor cut in, wry once more. "It would be impossible to say with any sort of certainty or veracity that what we have on record comprises the entirety of your achievements throughout your life, or even throughout your career with the Autobots." Seeing Wheeljack drooping again, dismayed, he added in a kind voice, "But I will compile a compendium of your collected projects, as quickly as I am capable of doing so."

"Thanks, Perceptor," Wheeljack said gratefully, no longer looking quite so hangdog. "I would really appreciate it."

Perceptor inclined his head gracefully. "Please, think nothing of it," he said, smiling. "I am delighted to be capable of rendering assistance. Now, if you will excuse me, I will attend to this matter immediately." He nodded pleasantly to both of them, and took his leave.

For a long moment, the pair just looked at each other a bit awkwardly, no longer certain of what they should do now that they were alone. Finally, Wheeljack broke the silence. "Nice guy, that Perceptor," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Bluestreak acknowledged. "He is, even though I don't really understand half of what he says, and he can be kinda distant or, I dunno, distracted maybe is a better word, a lot of the time, but I don't hold it against him, since he really _is_ such a nice guy, and I guess he's got a lot of really important things to think about…" Seeing his bondmate blinking at him with a sort of bemused look, he trailed off sheepishly. "Guess I'm babbling again, huh?" he asked, dropping his gaze in embarrassment. "I keep forgetting that you're not used to listening to me go on anymore."

Wheeljack's expression became reassuring. "Nah, Blue, it's okay," he said, and smiled when the gunner brightened.

"Y'know," Bluestreak said, smiling in return, used to interpreting Wheeljack's expressions even with the facemask in the way, "your personality isn't really all that different from…from before." He winced a little at even this small reminder of what had happened. "I mean, Ratchet seems to have changed a lot—he's a lot less…well, angry, I guess. Less mean, y'know?" Seeing Wheeljack's surprised look, he hastily amended his statement. "Well, not exactly mean, I suppose, just…he doesn't seem as quick to throw things at people now…though he really only threw things at people when they deserved to have something thrown at them…" He paused again, taking in Wheeljack's expression and wilting a bit. "I'm just digging the hole deeper, aren't I?" he asked miserably.

Wheeljack blinked at him in surprise. "What? No, Blue, I'm not upset with you," he reassured the younger mech hastily. "I just…it keeps surprising me, these reputations that we seem to have now. I mean, Ratchet has always had a temper, but…" He shook his head. "As excitable as he can get, he really doesn't have a mean strut in his body. And he's had plenty of temper tantrums, sure, but I've never seen him just start throwing things," he finished, his voice quiet.

Bluestreak shrugged, still just a bit uncomfortable despite his bondmate's reassurances. "Well, from what I've seen, someone has to have done something really, _really_ stupid or dangerous before he starts pitching stuff at them," he said softly. "Not that there's a shortage of that sort of thing going on around here," he added dryly. He paused for a moment, then, heading off on a tangent, he continued, "And you say he doesn't have a mean strut in his body? Primus, the twins will eat him alive, then. You have to be at least a little bit mean just to keep their interest, let alone to keep them in line. I sure as slag couldn't do it." He sounded a little amused—at least, until he saw the startled look on Wheeljack's face.

"Primus!" the engineer said, optics wide and worried. "What sort of mechs are they? …wait, are you implying that _you…_?"

"Interfaced with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker?" Bluestreak finished wryly. He shrugged and gave Wheeljack a small, crooked smile. "It was some time ago," he said, his tone noncommittal. "It ended pretty quickly. I don't regret having done it, but I don't regret it being over, either." His smile became sweet and warm, obviously meant only for his bondmate. "I'm happy with you."

The gunner's voice was soft and trusting, and it made Wheeljack melt utterly, despite the unsettling knowledge that _his_ bondmate had been intimate with _Ratchet's_ bondmates. The engineer could feel his spark flutter with an emotion that he'd thought himself too raw to ever feel again, let alone this soon after…well, after _him_. It almost seemed a betrayal, a cheapening of the pain he'd felt when _he_ left, to be feeling the first stirrings of a crush, even if it were a crush on this mech who was his _bonded_.

"It's not _so_ bad, is it?" Bluestreak asked quietly, and Wheeljack had to wince at the layer of hurt in his tone.

"Oh Blue…" The engineer looked down, unable to meet the younger mech's gaze. "It's nothing _you've_ done…" It was on the tip of his tongue to add, _You've done everything right_—and then realized that he didn't have to when he felt the odd mix of joy and sorrow radiating from the gunner in their bond.

"I know it's nothing _I've_ done," Bluestreak said in a soft voice. "I just wish I could undo what _he's_ done."

Wheeljack flinched and dropped his gaze a little further. Softly, he whispered, "Primus, Blue, I wish I hadn't been so stupidly gullible…"

Immediately, in a voice that was firm but not harsh, the gunner corrected, "You're _not_ stupid. A stupid mech couldn't do the things that you've done." He paused a moment, then, in a quieter voice, continued, "I know I can't undo what happened. The past is the past and I can't change it." The young mech's head came up, his expression determined and his voice firm once again. "But I can _damn_ sure make certain that you _never_ feel that way again. _I love you,_ Wheeljack, and nothing will _ever_ change that."

Wheeljack's optics widened as he lifted them to meet his bonded's gaze. A sudden flush of _hope_ suffused him, and he knew that Bluestreak caught it by the way his own optics brightened.

Suddenly, the grey mech smiled warmly. "I have an idea," he said. "Why don't we go out? On a date, I mean." He dropped his gaze shyly, his hands twisting together with a hopeful nervousness that Wheeljack couldn't help but find endearing. "We could even pretend we just met. It could be like starting over, and we could get to know each other all over again…" He met the engineer's gaze with such a pleading look that he hadn't the spark to tell him no—and besides, Wheeljack was surprising himself by finding that he actually _liked_ the idea.

"You know…" He smiled beneath the mask, optics and vocal indicators glowing brightly. "I think that would be wonderful, Bluestreak."

* * *

Cliffjumper was nervous. His plating felt constrictive and itchy, as though he might burst into pieces at any moment from the contained excess of energy building in him as he paced before the medbay doors. He was waiting, along with everyone else invited to this little party, for the final repairs to be made to Windcharger's chassis, waiting to be allowed back in to see what had been made right and what was irreversibly wrong. He couldn't help sneaking sidelong looks at Prowl and Wheeljack and Ratchet, all there with their respective bondmates, both grim and glad reminders of his own fears and hopes.

Prime and his entourage were not here this time; they had gone back to Cybertron once all had seemed stable here. Rodimus had since assigned Ultra Magnus as City Commander, but the big mech had yet to return to Earth. Cliffjumper couldn't help but feel more than a little relieved not to have any of them; being around them still felt awkward to him, and it was just one more stress he didn't feel capable of dealing with.

He could feel his companions' optics on him; Sideswipe's, in particular, seemed a weight on his shoulders for some reason he couldn't fathom. It was a physical relief when the medbay doors finally opened to admit them, and he brushed past Swoop without waiting for any further invitation.

And then he stopped dead, making Sideswipe, close on his heels, skip aside with an oath to avoid tripping over him.

Windcharger was lying there, his paint gleaming as though he'd just rolled off the assembly line, and Cliffjumper could see Sunstreaker out of the corner of his optic, clearly surveying his work to see if First Aid or Swoop had left any last-minute scratches during the final repairs. For a moment he was frozen, unable to move, unable to make a sound—until he felt someone give him a little push, and then he was running, dashing to Windcharger's side as though Unicron himself were chasing him.

"Oh," was all he could think to say, and he looked up at First Aid, standing beside the berth, with expectant optics. Thankfully, the young CMO seemed to understand what he couldn't manage to ask, and he nodded, his quick fingers removing the blocks that kept Windcharger in stasis.

At first, nothing happened, and Cliffjumper had a sickening moment of pure terror that nothing _would_ happen—then, all at once, Windcharger's optics blinked on, and he turned his head to stare at him.

"Um, hi," Cliffjumper said, optics wide, cursing himself for his lack of eloquence, every word of the greeting he'd rehearsed in his head gone like smoke on the wind.

"Hi," Windcharger said back, and looked around curiously. "…why's everyone staring at me like that?" He wrinkled his nose in confused wariness.

"Do you know who I am?" Cliffjumper blurted out, before he could stop himself, then hunched his shoulders and bit his lip, bracing himself for the inevitable answer.

Windcharger looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "What?"

There was a sickening lurch in Cliffjumper's fuel tanks, and for a moment he thought he might be ill. There was blank incomprehension in Windcharger's bright optics, puzzlement drawing his mouth into a frown.

"Um, am I not supposed to…?" Before anyone could respond to this, something seemed to click in the newly-onlined minibot's head, as though he thought maybe Cliffjumper and everyone else had taken leave of their senses. "Wait. Do _you_ know who _I_ am?" he asked.

Taken aback, Cliffjumper stared. "Of course I know who you are!"

Windcharger blinked, a quick flicker of his optics. "Oh, well, that's good, 'cause the way you were looking at me, I almost thought you didn't, and, you know, that would be _bad_."

This complete reversal of his expectations had Cliffjumper so thrown that he honestly wasn't sure what to do or say. He'd been prepared for his bondmate to not recognize him, to have to coax him to trust him again—in short, for all of the problems and sparkache the bigger mechs were already going through, and he couldn't quite make himself understand the way things were actually turning out. A little stupidly, he said, "But…you died. And came back to life."

Windcharger looked confused for a moment, then, inexplicably, he _brightened_. "Oh," he said, "good!" When everyone gaped at him, his expression fell. Cautiously, he ventured, "It _is_ good, right? Right? I mean, not the dying part, obviously, but the coming back to life part, that's good, isn't it?" It was clear that he was growing more and more concerned as the other mechs in the room regarded him with stunned disbelief.

"Yeah…it's good…" Cliffjumper knew his voice sounded strangled, but he couldn't manage to steady it; it was really beginning to sink in, that his bondmate might actually _remember_ him.

And then, in tones of dawning realization, as though he'd finally put together the pieces of the puzzle and figured out why everyone was staring at him as though he was going to jump out and eat them, Windcharger said, in a very reassuring tone, "I'm not a zombie, you know. I don't want to eat your brains. In fact, that would be pretty disgusting." He nodded sagely, as though that explained everything.

Cliffjumper just goggled at the other minibot, completely at a loss for what to say, and he was peripherally aware of the others watching with expressions varying between startled and dawning amusement. Finally, after an eternity, and when it looked as though Windcharger might reiterate his reassurances, someone said, laughter clearly threatening to spill over, "…we didn't think you were a zombie, Windcharger."

Windcharger blinked, then nodded. "Well, I just wanted to make sure. You know, just in case."

Cliffjumper snorted, overwhelmed to the point of reacting on instinct, drawing his mate's surprised gaze. "No more late-night movies for you," he said, stubbornly ignoring the uncharacteristic quaver in his voice. Windcharger's optics widened at the sound, and he nodded uncertainly.

"Yeah, sure," he murmured, seeming a bit unsettled for a moment—until memory dragged his mind down another path, like flipping a switch. "The battle! I almost forgot! Did we win?" Another round of staring, this time enough to make the impulsive minibot fidget nervously.

First Aid's tone was gentle, answering for all of them, since no one else seemed able to find a voice. "No, we didn't."

"Oh." Then Windcharger brightened again, irrepressible. "Well, then, how'd I do?" This time he came to his own realization, responding to his own question, looking downcast. "…oh. Yeah. Not so good, huh?"

Suddenly, Cliffjumper felt himself quivering with pent up emotion, and he climbed up on the berth with his bondmate, wrapping the other mech up in his arms tightly. Voice shaking, on the edge of sobs, he whispered, "No, no, you did fine. You did great." Holding his mate for the first time in what felt like an eternity—since before they were posted halfway across the galaxy from each other—he's hyperaware of the fact that he'd never expected to get to hold Windcharger again, and everything began to spill from him in a torrent, in a flood that was impossible to stop. "You—you stupid _glitchhead_, I thought I'd lost you, Primus, I'm _so sorry_ I wasn't here…I should have told them to _stuff_ their slagging posting when I found out you weren't coming with me…"

He was oblivious to the utterly bewildered look on Windcharger's face, which was really just as well. "But…you couldn't disobey Prime, and there was no way of knowing that things would happen the way they did…" Windcharger said, worry and alarm heavy in his tone. He started patting Cliffjumper's back awkwardly, as though he didn't quite know what to do with him. Clearly trying to be cheery despite the red mech's mood, he added brightly, "And hey, I'm alive now, right? No harm, no foul!"

For just a brief moment, Cliffjumper seriously considered slugging him right in the face. Then he counted backwards from ten, turned to look at First Aid, and growled, "I'm gonna take this moron back home, if that's okay with you, Doc."

"Um—yeah, sure," First Aid said, looking a little off-balance, but not really having a reason to keep Windcharger there when he clearly didn't have to be. "Just, uh, make sure he refuels?"

Cliffjumper was already dragging his bondmate down off of the repair berth, and he waved a hand in acknowledgement as he pulled an apologetically grimacing Windcharger out the door.

"Well that's not fucking fair," Sunstreaker said flatly into the following silence, and stalked out.


End file.
